Turnabout to the Past
by PengyChan
Summary: [SPOILERS for the final case of AA: Dual Destinies] Certain to get the death sentence, the Phantom asks for one thing in exchange of all the information the police may want from him: his identity, and a name to call his own before he dies. And the Mood Matrix just may be the key to recover his lost memories.
1. The Phantom

_A/N: the fic contains huge spoilers for the last case of Dual Destinies. If you haven't finished the game, run away and_ do it now_._

_I began writing this a bit back, but I decided to post it here now that I'm fairly confident I'm going to finish it. Not sure how many chapters there will be, but it shouldn't be TOO long._

* * *

The Phantom's true face is, perhaps unsurprisingly, rather unremarkable.

It's _plain_, lacking any distinctive features and so utterly ordinary that it's hard to even describe. If asked to describe it, Simon Blackquill wouldn't even know where to start. Pale blue eyes, short straw-colored hair... and a scar, that's all that would come to his mind; the scar is, all in all, the only thing about that face that actually catches the eye. It's on his forehead, a small circle with frayed edges, no larger than a quarter. A bullet wound, Blackquill thinks as he sits down, and a rather old one. The Phantom has had more than just one serious brush with death, it appears. Blackquill wonders whose skin was he wearing when that happened.

"I'll be standing outside," a guard is saying, sounding extremely awkward. Hardly a surprise, considering that no more than three weeks ago Blackquill himself was held there. "If anything happens, don't... uh... call for me, alright?" he adds, eyes shifting from Blackquill to the Phantom – who, on the other hand, is sitting quietly on the other side a metal table and looking almost bored.

There is no glass between them, for the Phantom requested specifically to speak to him and Athena somewhere other than the visitor's room – well away from cameras or anyone's ears. It's a request that wouldn't be even considered under normal circumstances, but nothing about the Phantom is normal and the Interpol is getting really desperate to get any information at all out of him. They took the case from the LA Police Department almost as soon as he was arrested, claiming that the Phantom was theirs to deal with, but they failed to get him to give any information at all about... well, about pretty much anything. They have even tried with a Truth Machine, Blackquill has heard, but the Phantom rigged it at every turn. So, when the Phantom told them he may talk if he got a chance to speak to both Simon Blackquill and Athena Cykes first, they were more than ready to allow it. Anything to get him to speak, apparently.

"We will," Athena tells the guard as both she and Blackquill sit down. She's remarkably controlled, but Blackquill doesn't miss the stiffness in her frame. Not that he can blame her: facing her mother's murderer can't be easy. Still, Blackquill knows she's strong enough to. He turns his attention from her and looks down at the Phantom's shackled hands resting on the table.

"I can't say that I don't appreciate the irony," he finally says.

The Phantom's gaze shifts down on the shackles, and a smirk curls his lips. It looks mechanical, as though some kind of puppeteer is simply pulling up the corners of his mouth with strings. "It is ironic, yes. No offense, but I like to think they look better on me."

"Hmpf. You're hardly an interesting sight overall. I daresay that each and every of your masks showed more personality than your true face. Or is this yet another mask?" he asks. Aside from being unremarkable, the Phantom's face is very pale; the result of keeping it hidden beneath masks for years, no doubt. They still have no clue of what actual age is, but to Blackquill he looks somewhere between late thirties and early forties.

If the remark hits a raw nerve – it _does_, Blackquill is certain of it – the Phantom doesn't let it show. He simply smirks and lifts one shackled hand to briefly run a hand across his cheek. "I couldn't take _this_ one off, so I'm rather confident it's made of flesh. It may not be that much to look at, but it's _mine_. I know at least this much."

"And yet your voice is still not your own," Blackquill points out. While quieter and devoid of the almost unbearable cheerfulness, there is no mistaking the voice of Bobby Fulbright.

The Phantom's smirk falters for a moment before he speaks again, a small slip that doesn't escape Blackquill. He wouldn't have slipped like that before, he's certain of it. He may still have enough control on himself to rig the Interpol's Truth Machine, but something is slipping there; Blackquill can feel it.

"Yes, it's his voice. I can't yet recall what my own voice sounded like, so I figured I'd stick to it. For now."

"For now?" Athena asks quietly. It's almost unsettling seeing her so quiet, her face so unusually blank. It reminds Blackquill of the blank look she wore as a child before her mother's corpse, and it almost enough to make him shiver. Almost.

After seven years in prison, paying for a crime he never committed and with the date of his execution growing closer with each passing minute, Simon Blackquill doesn't shudder over much of anything anymore.

The man facing them smiles again, a dreadfully empty smile. "That is related to the reason why I asked for your presence here."

"And you have thirty seconds to tell us what it is, or else we'll be leaving and-" he trails off when the Phantom's expression changes into a pout, a pout he knows damn well. It is the kind that would show on Fulbright's face ever so often, and just seeing it on this... this man's face makes Blackquill grit his teeth. "If you have even one ounce of decency," he snarls, "wipe that expression from your face right now. The mask is off, Phantom, and you will not further insult a man you killed by trying to mimic him."

The pout melts into a laugh, and the Phantom throws back his head. "You certainly are protective of a man you never met, Prosecutor Blackquill," he says once the brief laugh dies down. "How can you be so sure the _real_ Detective Fulbright ever made such a face? You never truly saw him. Never truly spoke to him once. And yet in a way you did. You grew to trust him in your own way, didn't you? Such a well-intentioned fool he was, thinking he could reform even you – a convicted criminal facing death penalty."

Blackquill narrows his eyes. "None of it was real. It was all an act."

"Oh, but was it?" the Phantom smirks, leaning back against his seat. "I had to become him, after all, and acted everything like he would. _Everything_. He would have been the same, I'm certain. He would have supported you. He would have wanted to think the best of you. He would have believed in you to the very end. Haven't I mentioned what an utterly trusting fool he was? Such big talk of justice, and yet he was just as blind. He never saw his death coming, and it was over before he could even realize it – the _trust_ you speak so highly of made him such an easy target. He was ridiculously easy to kill. So was your mentor, actually. Out of the three of them, the little red attorney's friend was the only one who put up a decent fi-"

Athena moves fast, but not so fast that Blackquill cannot realize what she's about to do. Still, he doesn't move to stop her... and neither does the Phantom. The back of her hand hits him straight in the face, causing his head whip backward, and yet he doesn't make a noise – that of the blow the only sound in the room. For a few moments there is only more silence, with Athena still standing, and her still lifted hand shakes before she lowers it and sinks back on her seat.

It's then than the Phantom finally moves, turning his head back to them. He reaches up to wipe the blood welling from his broken lip and looks down at his bloodied hand with a small smirk. "At least now we can tell for a fact that this one face is not a mask," he muses aloud.

Blackquill scoffs. "Good for your peace of mind, I suppose. You have yet to tell us-"

"Did none of them mean anything _at all_?"

Athena's voice is higher than usual, the distress obvious even without having to listen closely or look at Widget. Blackquill looks back at her and for a moment he's about to speak, to tell her not to bother asking – because he knows what the Phantom's reply will be, and he knows it will hurt – but the Phantom speaks first.

"Mean... anything?" he repeats.

"You killed Detective Fulbright. You killed Apollo's best friend. You killed _my mother_," she says, her voice shaking. "Was all of that... _nothing_ to you?"

The pain in her voice is hard to even listen to, and Blackquill can understand ever bit of it; it is hard to even imagine that someone can kill a person who means so much to you and feel absolutely nothing about it. The pain of the loss is still there for both of them, an empty space aching cold in their chests, and yet the monster who took them away can talk about them while looking at them in the eye and still show no remorse.

The Phantom's expression goes back to being vaguely bored. "No. Should they? They were nothing to me. I didn't know them. They were simply obstacles in my way."

Athena clenches her teeth, and speaks again. She sounds a bit firmer now, less pained and angrier. "But you did know Simon. You've known him for over a year. You were going to let him take the fall and be executed even while you pretended to be his friend. Was... was it nothing, even that? Only an act?"

Blackquill is about to put a hand on her shoulder, tell her to go out for a while and breathe some fresh air, that asking such things to a man such as the Phantom will only hurt her – but he pauses when he catches a movement in the corner of his eyes. Was that...?

When he turns to truly look at him the Phantom is absolutely still and calm, but Blackquill is certain he recoiled at Athena's question. It was a small movement, sure, but he didn't miss it... and neither did Athena, for she's now looking at him more intently. She was aiming to see – or listen to – his reaction, Blackquill realizes, and she _did_ get one. He barely holds back a somewhat proud smile and turns to look back at the Phantom. He looks perfectly calm, but he must realize their reaction hasn't escaped them at all.

"I don't quite get what you're asking of me. If I have regrets? If it makes you happy to know it, Miss Cykes, I do have one. I regret leaving you alive. Remember this?" he asks, and lifts a shackled hand. It's gloveless, and there is a scar across it's back – from when he killed Metis Cykes and little Athena stabbed him in panic. "I wouldn't be here hadn't you been alive you had stabbed me. Actually, none of this would have happened hadn't it been for you. I would have had no reason to return hadn't you wounded me and forced me to hide the moon rock. I would have had no reason to retrieve it. I would have had no reason to kill your friend's friend, or-"

"Silence!" Blackquill barks, slamming a hand against the table and leaning forward. He takes some satisfaction in the fact he caused the Phantom to flinch back. The man is going out of his way to avoid Athena's question and make them forget of the way he recoiled, but Blackquill is not inclined to let him control where the conversation goes. "Tell us what you want, or else keep those lips of yours still. _Answer_ to me. And if you say anything that is _not_ that answer we'll be taking our leave."

For a few moments the Phantom just stares at him with unnervingly pale eyes, and Blackquill detects a moment's hesitation before he finally speaks. "I want you to find out who I am."

Blackquill laughs. It's a cold laugh, with very little amusement in it. "You have galls, I'll give you that. Why should we do anything for you? You aren't worth the air you breathe. You aren't worthy the words we're wasting, let alone our efforts. You're a nobody in every sense of the word. You can die as one as far as I'm concerned. Unless..." he sneers. "Unless you can give something in return, of course. As it happens, I _want_ a few things as well. I want seven years of my life back. I want my sister out of prison. I want my mentor alive and well. I want Athena to have a her mother and _childhood_ back. Can you give us any of that?"

"Simon..." Athena says somewhere beside him, but Blackquill barely hears her: all his attention is focused on the Phantom. Who, on the other hand, hasn't even blinked.

"As a matter of fact, I _can_ give something back."

"Which is...?" Blackquill says, but he already knows exactly where the conversation is going.

"Information. All the information the Interpol may possibly want, and more. It seems a fair deal to me," the other man says, leaning forward on the desk. Blackquill's eyes are once again drawn to the bullet scar on his head. "You help me, I help the police. The Interpol is rather desperate for information I just happen to have; all I'm suggesting is an exchange. You find out what my identity is, and I'll give them just that. No holding back. Why should I? I'm not leaving prison alive, as you pointed out. I'll be a good boy. Give me a name I can have on my grave, and I'll _talk_."

Blackquill chuckles. "How predictable. I should have known information was what you'd offer. It's _all_ you have to offer, after all. And why would you be asking us of all people?"

With a smirk, the Phantom props an elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm. "Now, Prosecutor Blackquill. You're an intelligent man. I'm certain you know exactly why," he says, and his gaze falls on Widget. "Analytical psychology, of course. And, most important of all, little Miss Cykes' Mood Matrix."

"My Mood Matrix?" Athena repeats, instinctively reaching up to touch Widget.

"Yes. You could quite literally drag information to the surface, even something the person you used it on barely recalled. Why not use it to dredge back my memories?"

Athena frowns slightly. "It can't work starting with nothing. We'd need some memories to work on first, and you said you don't have any... or do you now? Have you remembered anything?"

He seems to hesitate for only a moment before nodding. "Something, I suppose. Bits and pieces that don't seem to belong to any of my... any of the identities I took. But it's so little, and I cannot make any sense of it. Not on my own," he says, and pulls his hand away from his face. "That device may be the key to it all. The Interpol has nothing like it. No one has anything like it but you. That device, and your... special talent."

"A talent that would be entirely wasted on you," Blackquill states coldly.

The Phantom narrows his eyes. "It's information you want, isn't it?" he asks, and turns his attention back to Athena. "Wouldn't you like to know who ordered the sabotage on the HAT-1 mission? Who told me of the sample of my voice our prosecutor here brought to your mother to analyze? Who provided me the means to infiltrate the Space Center to begin with, so that I could get rid of your mother and sabotage the mission in one go?"

Athena bites her lower lip, and Blackquill can tell that she does want to know. How could she not? They both want to know. And they will, he tells himself, they will know all that there is to know – but if they're going to play the Phantom's game, he has to make clear from the start that he's not going to be the one to set the rules.

"It's not enough," he says, reaching under the table to grab Athena's hand and hold it for a moment. She catches his drift right away – _leave this to me_ – and says nothing. "This information is something the Interpol will get out of you at some point, whether you will it or not. The Interpol, or our own police. Your actions classify you are more than a mere spy, Phantom – you're a terrorist. And when it comes to making terrorists speak, they don't shy away from... unsavory methods. They'll _make_ you speak sooner or later, if anything so that you can have in exchange the sweet release of death."

The Phantom's jaw clenches for a moment before he speaks. His voice is still calm, and collected. "You underestimate me, Prosecutor Blackquill. I'd almost say I'm hurt."

Blacquill scoffs. "Or perhaps you're overestimating yourself. You once claimed you had no fear, and yet the little show you put on in court was quite entertaining. So much for a man without fear," he says, and this time he can see his words hit the mark: the Phantom tenses up and works his jaw for a moment.

"That was not-"

"That was the proof you're only a coward, running away from yourself. How amusing that _now_ you want to have that self back. But here's the thing, Phantom – you cannot demand anything if you're not willing to face the truth to begin with."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

With a sneer, Blackquill leans forward. "Then why don't you tell the truth now?"

"The truth...?"

"The truth," Blackquill says viciously and with no small amount of satisfaction, "is that you're trying to delude yourself into thinking you have some kind of ledge. And perhaps you do, but it's nowhere big as you make it out to be. You're far more desperate to know who you are than the Interpol could ever be to get any kind of information out of you – and they have the _means_ to make you talk sooner or later. You're trying to come across as someone suggesting a fair exchange of information while you're little more than a beggar grasping for straws. The Interpol could use the information, I'm certain, but you _need_ to know who you are. Do you think that I – I, of all people – wouldn't be able to recognize the eyes of someone who cannot sleep at night?"

For a few moments the Phantom says nothing: he only looks at him, his gaze blank. When he speaks again, he doesn't try to deny the fact he spends most of his nights awake; then again, how could he? The dark shadows under his eyes speak volumes and there is no denying them. "Are you expecting me to beg for your help, Prosecutor Blackquill? I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed. I will not. I have no reason to, because no matter what you may claim – I know you want the information I hold. I'm not as _desperate_ as you make me out to be. I want-"

Blackquill stands abruptly, causing the man to trail off. "Enough with this charade. I wasted enough time because of you; seven years of it. I shall not waste a minute more. Come, Athena," he says, and as she stands in silence – still leaving it all to him, as he had asked of her – he turns to give a bored glance at the Phantom. Who, on the other hand, seems just a little paler than he was moments ago. Quite a feat, considering that he's already even paler than Blackquill himself. "Next time we meet it will be at your execution, I suppose. However long it may take for that day to come, I'm certain I'll relish in the sight. It will be like exorcising a ghost. I wonder what they'll even write on your grave," he sneers, and that finally makes the Phantom snap out of his surprise.

"No. No, wait-"

"You wasted your chance," Blackquill cuts him off, and turns to walk to the door. He can hear Athena following him, and then a chair being pushed back and shackled fists hitting a metal table. For a moment Blackquill almost turns, if anything to protect Athena from anything the Phantom may attempt, but but he stops when he recalls that the Phantom is also shackled to the table. He wouldn't be able to harm either of them even if he wanted. So he ignores him, and walks up to the door.

"_Blackquill_! I'm not done-"

"_I_ am," Blackquill snaps back, not even turning to look back. He reaches for the knob and opens the door. "Officer, we're done here. You can take him back to his-"

"PLEASE!"

Blackquill pauses, and smiles to himself. The cry that left the Phantom now sounds just _right_, and shows just how close he is to losing it. Indeed, he's not as desperate as he imagined to find out just who he is – he's even more desperate than that, and Blackquill now knows without a shadow of doubt that he can break the Phantom if so he wishes. It's a pleasant thought, he has to admit, and a tempting option... but for now it is enough that he can show him exactly where they stand. If they're to play this game, then fine – but it will be him, and never the Phantom, to make the rules.

"Athena. Can you please wait outside for a few minutes?" he asks quietly, still not turning back to the Phantom. She looks up at him somewhat uncertainly.

"Simon, what are you...?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Now I only wish to speak with him alone. It won't take long," he promises.

She finally nods. "Fine," is all she says before walking out, closing the door behind herself softly. Blackquill is more than certain she'll be listening from behind the door, but that doesn't really matter: the Phantom won't know it, after all.

"Didn't you say, not even a minute ago, that you would not beg?" Blackquill asks aloud, still giving the Phantom his back. There is no reply at first, not one sound – but then there are shifting chains, the sound of a man sitting back heavily. When Blackquill finally turns back he's not surprised at all to see him sitting once again, elbows resting on the table and his head in his hands. Blackquill can no longer see his face, but he certainly doesn't miss the sight. He walks up to the table and sits back down, leaning against the backrest and crossing his arms.

"You have some galls, asking for our help after all the crimes you committed."

The Phantom stays silent for several moments before speaking, his head still in his hands and still facing the table's surface. "I'll pay for all that with my life. A mockery, but still a life. All I ask is having a name to call my own before I die. I already told you what it is I can offer in exchange. It... it must be enough. It _must_. I can't... I don't... I... _no_!"

For a moment Blackquill is taken aback by the sudden cry of denial that leaves the Phantom, but realization sinks in as soon as he sees the drops on the table's surface, as soon as the Phantom reaches up to furiously rub his eyes.

"No. No, no, no, _no,_" he keeps repeating, like it's some kind of mantra, but his shoulders are shaking and it's obvious he's on the verge of entirely losing control. It occurs to Blackquill that this is likely the first time since the Phantom seems to remember that he's not filling up someone else's role: no identity to steal, no personality to imitate, no pretense to keep up. Nothing of what he says or thinks or feels is now following a script, so it's no wonder that he's losing it – he's forced to be himself and he has no _self_, has no idea _who_ he is, no clue how much of what's in his own head is actually part of _him_. He could keep some control over himself as long as he thought he had some cards to play, but even that illusion collapsed as soon as Blackquill made it clear that the game was out of his hands.

He's a nobody trying and failing to be _someone_. It's no real wonder the situation frightens him. If it were someone else, anyone else, then perhaps Blackquill would feel some measure of pity.

"... Fool Bright," Blackquill he hears himself saying, and before he can even realize what he said the Phantom takes in a sharp breath and goes silent. The heels of his hands are still pressed against his eyes, and he exhales and then inhales again before speaking.

"That is... not my name."

"But we'll settle for it until we know better. Or perhaps I'll shorten it and simply make it 'Fool'. It describes you quite well, after all. A pitiful, cowardly fool running away from himself. "

"I _cannot_ run from myself!" the Phantom snaps, finally tearing his hands off his face. His eyes are reddened, and has bitten into his already broken lip hard enough to draw more blood that's now coating his mouth and chin. His expression is that of a man on the brink of insanity. "There is no self! There is nothing inside! _Nothing at all_!"

A derisive snort leaves Blackquill's mouth. "You said the same thing during the trial, and it's as much of a pathetic lie now as it was back then. I don't know how much of _this_ is the real you – you don't, either – but there has to be _something_. Didn't you say you're remembering something? Bits and pieces that don't belong to any mask you've worn?" he presses on.

He doesn't receive a reply right away, for the Phantom and breathing in and out in the attempt at regaining some measure of control. When he finally straightens himself and looks back at him he looks somewhat stabler, though Blackquill can tell his equilibrium is precarious at the very best. "Yes. I am remembering... something," he finally says, reaching up to wipe the blood off his mouth and chin with a sleeve. "I'm not entirely sure those memories are my own, or rather I'm not sure I was actually... my own self when I got them. I can't recall them being part of any mission I was in, though, so I think they may mine. But I can only remember brief glimpses. Very brief ones. And one of them brings back anything. That's why I thought-"

"That Athena's Mood Matrix could help you uncover more," Blackquill finishes for him. It is a long shot, but not an entirely baseless idea: Athena's ability to read the emotions he felt at the time of his memories, even the emotions the Phantom himself couldn't realize were there, actually may help him remember more.

The Phantom nods. "Yes. It may be... my only chance," he says, and his voice falters for only a moment before he clenches his jaw and leans forward. "Prosecutor Blackquill, you have been chasing me since before your mentor's murder. Why, the reason why she had to be taken out of the picture in the first place is the fact you were _already_ after me and involved her by asking her to analyze a sample of my voice to create a psych profile. And you weren't after me only for me, were you? Of course not. You wanted to stop the whole organization, wanted to know what countries and corporations were involved. You wanted the espionage and sabotage operations to come to an end. I can offer you that now. I know more than enough for you to end it all. I only ask for a name in return. Nothing more."

Blackquill leans back and smirks. He's not at all surprised that it has come to this kind of talk – and even less surprised of the fact the Phantom is forgetting a very important thing. "Very well. Let's say I'm interested. What about Athena?"

Predictably enough, the Phantom frowns in confusion. "What about her?"

"Your bargaining chip may work for me, but less for her. You killed her mother. Tried to make her take the blame. Killed her friend's best friend. Tried to frame her for murder. Has it occurred to you , even for a moment, that your offer for information on whatever organization you worked for may not be enough for her to get past that?" he asks. He actually knows it is – he knows Athena is strong enough to put aside her own feelings to pursue the truth and help bring _everything_ to a close for good – but the Phantom _doesn't_. "And it's her help you need the most. Not mine. _Hers_. If you were hoping I'd try to force her into it only to get some closure of my own you're sorely mistaken," he adds, and holds back a smirk when he sees the Phantom's mouth twitching before he turns away.

"What must I do, then?" he asks, his voice quiet.

Rot in hell, Blackquill wishes to say, but he knows better than that. No matter what he said or what points he may have made – he does want that information, even if he's not desperate for it as the Phantom is desperate for an identity to call his own.

"Stop demanding," he finally replies. "As I believe I made clear, you're in no position to make demands. The Interpol may fall for it, but not me. Not Athena. It's our – her – help you need; _ask_ for it. Or beg, whichever term suits you best. It likely won't work, and we just might ignore you and carry on with our lives while you rot in prison first and in a nameless grave afterward. But it would be more befitting of your position, and it might give you a sliver of a chance. Demands will get you precisely nowhere, because there is _nothing_ you have to give her in return. Nothing she wishes as much as you yearn for an identity of your own. Unless you can resuscitate the dead, of course. Can you?"

There is a brief, utterly joyless laugh. "I obviously cannot. Very well," he says, looking back up at Blackquill. "I'll ask her, then, as you said. Beg if I have to. Not much left to lose, after all. Except dignity, but then again I believe I already forfeited a great part of it right before I was shot."

"That would be fitting, yes. Just one more thing," Blackquill says, and leans forward. "If you try once more to hurt her, even with your pathetic and useless _words_, you'll wish you were never born. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal," is the flat reply. Blackquill nods and turns to the door.

"Athena, I think you're eavesdropped quite enough. Come back in."

The door opens almost right away, and Athena's head pops in. She looks at him with a somewhatv sheepish grin. "Heh. Was I _that_ obvious?"

"That obvious and then some," Blackquill replies with a shrug as she walks in and closes the door behind herself. Her sheepish grin vanishes when she looks back at the Phantom, who returns her serious look with a rather blank one. Still, his hands ball into fists on the table.

"I suppose," he finally speaks, "that this is the part where I'm expected to beg. Very well. I-"

"I'll do it."

The Phantom trails off, clearly taken aback, while Blackquill holds back a chuckle. He has known from the start that Athena wouldn't care for some forced plea from her mother's murderer; his whole point, after all, was simply showing the Phantom where he stands – how he's not the one to set the rules, and will never be again.

"You... will?" the Phantom repeats, sounding rather incredulous and somewhat suspicious. "Why...?"

Athena scowls, and reaches up to touch Widget. "For my mother. For Simon. And for Apollo, and Clay, and Aura. For Detective Fulbright. To know the truth at last. You may not deserve my help, but _they_ deserve some closure. So I'll do it," she adds, taking her hand away from Widget. "Besides... I want to know who you _are_. I want to know the name of the man who took my mother from me."

"... Heh. Do you? Why, isn't that a fortunate coincidence," the Phantom mutters. "It seems we have an agreement, after all."

"For now," Blackquill says, and finally stands up. "Very well. It's high time for us to go," he says, causing the Phantom to frown up at him.

"When...?"

"We'll start the sessions when we feel like it. When _Athena_ feels like it. Beggars can't be choosers, wouldn't you agree? Meanwhile you can sit in your cell and try to remember more. Cells are wonderful places for some reminiscing, especially when you cannot sleep at night. I should know," he says – and, for the last time that day he turns his back to the Phantom.

This time, he doesn't call him back.


	2. Voices

"Hey, Simon. Can we, uh, have a word before we go in?"

As Simon turns to glance at her, Athena feels rather stupid for the nervousness she's letting show in her voice. She has no reason to be uncomfortable around him anymore: this is _Simon_, her mother's student, the young man who was like a big brother to her, someone willing to forfeit his life and freedom for her sake. She shouldn't feel intimidated at all.

And yet a tiny part of her still is, because after all he is not quite the same person he was seven years ago. Before her mother's murder he was an idealistic young man, quiet for his age but with gentle eyes and a pleasant laughter. He was often pensive but never sullen, and a calm smile was never too far away from his lips. Now he's... different. He has been through too much and spent too much time in prison to actually be that person again. These years have changed him; not to the core, _never_ to the core, but enough to make it difficult for her to recall that this silent, dark presence by her side is the same man who'd pick her up as a child when she was having an especially bad day and cheer her up with outlandish tales of samurai and great deeds.

And then there are his eyes; it's the thing that has changed the most. So even now, as he turns his gaze on her, Athena feels a stab of pain for what he had to go through, sorrow for the young man he has been, anger at the Phantom for causing all this... and shame for being the cause of his conviction. If only she had been able to remember what had happened back then, if only she could make the judge listen, if only-!

"Of course. What is it?" he asks as they stepped inside the elevator that will lead them to the floor where the session will be held. They let a whole week pass since they met the Phantom; Simon said it would make it clear to the Phantom that those sessions were no urgent business for them.

Athena hesitates for just a moment before speaking. "It's about something he said last time. Remember when I asked him if any of his victims meant anything at all to him?"

Simon nods. "Yes. He said rather clearly that they were nothing but obstacles to him. What about it?"

"Well... he was telling the truth, of course. I listened close, and I could hear no discord. They really were nothing to him," she says, making an effort to keep her voice firm: the knowledge her mother's murder was _nothing_ to her murderer still stings. "But then I asked... something else, remember?"

Another nod. "Yes, I remember. You asked him if letting me die after working with me for a year meant nothing, either. What about it?"

Something about Simon's calmness sounds somewhat wrong to Athena's ears, and she wonders if he really took no notice of the Phantom's reaction when confronted with that question. It seems unlikely Simon couldn hear any discord, of course, but he must have noticed how he flinched, and how he avoided replying.

"Well, first off... he avoided the question, remember? He didn't reply at all. Plus, the moment after I asked it there was some... well, it was no real discord, since he was not lying. But his heart rate picked up for a moment. It was like a sudden start, and then the heart rate went back to normal when he changed subject. There was no such thing with my previous question," she says as the elevator stops.

As the door opens, Simon gives her a glance that shows nothing of whatever he may be thinking of it. "I see. What conclusions would you draw from it?"

Athena bites her lower lip in thought. "I'm not sure. He avoided replying, so aside from that one start I could catch no discord. But I think he was unprepared for the question. It caught him by surprise, and he went out of his way not to answer directly. And yet he showed no hesitation when he told me that none of those he killed had mattered anything. I think he avoided answering because he thought I could pick up some discordance at... whatever reply he would give."

Simon makes a light scoffing noise. "Or perhaps he wanted to trick you into thinking so. Perhaps he merely wishes for us to believe is not quite the monster we know he _is_. I wouldn't put it past him."

"But to what end? After all he did, an act like that wouldn't be enough to change our minds. He's got to know that. And even if it was, then what difference would it make for him?" Athena asks – and, knowing that Simon is aware enough of her abilities to avoid saying anything his heart may be in discordance with, she strains her eyes to _see_. She cannot perceive the same way Apollo can, but working with him proved without a shadow of doubt how telling a person's nervous gestures can be... and, thanks to Apollo, Athena now knows what Simon's telling gesture is.

_He tends to bite a harder on the quill. Pay attention to that._

And, true enough, Simon _is_ biting on the feather hanging from his lips. Still, she can't tell what is it that bothers him. The Phantom's odd reaction to that one question? It could be, but she can't quite figure out what about _really_ bothers him. And, she thinks, he seems very eager to dismiss that hesitation as an actor's trick.

"I cannot tell," Simon is saying, unaware of her thoughts. "I'm about manipulation, after all, so I can only think of how he might be trying to manipulate us. Analytical psychology is your field. Maybe you'll figure him out better during these sessions. Here we are," he adds, and he's not talking to her. Athena looks away from him to see an officer standing in front of them, right by a closed door.

"Good morning, Prosecutor Blackquill. The Phantom is already inside. Should you need any assistance..."

"We'll call for you, yes. Do let us in," Simon says, jerking his chin toward the door. The officers goes to open the door, and Athena draws in a deep breath before stepping in.

The Phantom is sitting at a heavy wooden table, a bored expression on his face. Extra measures seem to have been taken for safety: there are two thick metal pegs drilled into the table, and each of the Phantom's wrists is cuffed to one. The chains seem to be long enough to allow him to stand, but not much else; he can't even reach all the way across the table for them, Athena notes. Last time they met he did have an extra chain binding him to the table's leg, but it was not quite as secure: he could free himself from it if he tried hard enough, so she's rather sure that the point of that one was simply slowing him down should he try to do anything – giving her and Simon time to get out.

But then again, why should he try to do anything? He needs their help, after all.

Simon seems to be wondering about the extra security as well. "I have to wonder what kind of stunt they think you could possibly pull," he says as he and Athena sit down, his eyes resting on the pegs. He sounds almost amused. "They didn't take such precautions even with me."

The Phantom shrugs and spreads his arms as far as the chains allow him – which isn't much, really. "I wondered the same thing. Not that I'm not flattered, of course, but with a bullet so recently taken out of my body and the stitches still on I hardly think I'm fit for any spectacular escape attempt."

"Hmph. I didn't expect you to complain over a bullet that didn't even hit any vital organ," Simon says, and his eyes shift to the Phantom's face. "What is that compared to a bullet to the head?"

There is a rattling noise as the Phantom reaches up for his head, but the chain is too short and stops his hand well away from his forehead. With a small sigh, the Phantom puts it back down. "Considering that I can't recall how I even got a such wound, I can make no comparisons."

Athena blinks. "What, you _forgot_ being shot in the head?"

"Why not? I forgot so many things," he says, resting back against the backrest. "My name, my face, my past, my beliefs, my emotions and my _self_. I left it all behind hell knows _when_. So why not this? I think the only thing I can tell for sure is that this wound... however I got it... must have been there since before I became a spy. I would likely remember being shot if it happened on some assignment."

"I see," Athena says, taking a more careful look at the scar. It is a bullet scar, no doubt, and it looks rather old. It looks like the Phantom was lucky: not many survive being shot in the head. Still... there may have been consequences, she thinks. "You know, traumatic brain injuries can result with-"

"Memory loss, behavioral issues, personality changes, lack of emotional responses _or_ emotional liability, lack of empathy and then some, all depending on the areas affected. And inappropriate sexual behavior in some cases, but I think at least that is something I cannot be accused of," the Phantom cuts her off, his voice flat. "Yes, I know. And I know what you're driving at. Do you really think I couldn't see that possibility by myself?"

Athena scowls. "I was just _saying,_" she mutters, and finally tears her gaze away from the scar to meet the Phantom's unnervingly pale eyes. Whether or not that old wound has had a role in making the Phantom into what he is – into what he _isn't_ – today is something they'll have to find out, she supposes. She reaches up to activate Widget, and a moment later the Mood Matrix's board is right there, ready for use. "Alright, we're starting now. So, you said you remembered something. What was it?"

For the first time since they walked in, the Phantom seems to hesitate. "It's... nothing of any true importance. It may be a dead end. It may even not be a real memory. Maybe I imagined it," he says somewhat bitterly.

Blackquill scoffs. "Isn't that what we're here to find out? Just _tell_ us. Or are you so afraid this will indeed turn out to be a dead end that you hesitate to share? Not that I cannot understand," he adds with a twisted smirk. "Having no hope is so much easier than clinging to a frail one that could be destroyed any moment. Bleaker, but easier. Hope can be the cruelest thing, wouldn't you agree? A chance at light that makes darkness all the worse once it's blown away."

For a few moments the Phantom says nothing; when he speaks again, his voice is little more than a whisper. "I am not... afraid."

"Keep telling yourself that if you're so inclined. But, since _we_ have no time to waste, speak. What _is_ it you remembered?"

The Phantom scowls at him, but he doesn't argue further and finally turns back to Athena. "It's... it was raining. There were buildings around, but they looked old and run down. It wasn't dark, but it was... grey. There was a lot of grey. I was... walking, I guess. I'm rather sure I was wet. And I remember some... kids. Not small kids, I guess, more like... the oldest may have been maybe sixteen. The youngest looking one was probably no younger than thirteen. The clothes looked rather old and worn up. They were sitting under one of those building's porch, away from the rain, talking. There was a stove, to keep themselves warm. They sat all around it. A couple of them were counting money – there were some wads of cash. Stolen, I suppose – why else would they have that much money?" he adds after a moment of focused silence. "They didn't hear me approaching, so I sneaked behind them. One of the columns holding up the porch made a good enough hiding place. I hid there."

Well, Athena thinks, this is not something she was expecting – though it's not like she really had any idea _what_ to expect. "I see," she says, putting the data into the Mood Matrix. "And then what happened?"

A sigh. "Nothing I can remember. The memory ends here. I remember I hid, and then nothing else."

Athena blinks. "Huh. So you were serious when you said it was nothing much."

"It's all I can dredge up on my own, little girl," the Phantom snaps back. "Can you make something about it, or can you no- AAAGH!"

Athena lets out a surprised gasp when the Phantom suddenly screams and jerks before slumping down against the chair. It takes her a few moments to realize what that was – an electric jolt. She turns to her right to see Blackquill smirking, the remote still in his hand.

"Have I already told you I really do appreciate the irony?" he asks, putting the remote on the table just out of the Phantom's reach as the other man draws in a few convulsive breaths. "What I do not appreciate, however, is watching you snapping at Cykes-dono. I thought I had made it clear just how _grateful_ you should be for the help she's giving you. Don't make me give you other _reminders_ of what your place is," he adds darkly. "Have I made myself clear?"

The Phantom straightens himself, looks back at Blackquill and, for some reason Athena cannot imagine, he smirks. "Crystal," he says quietly, though his breathing is still rather labored. He turns back to Athena and gives her a grin that bears an unnerving resemblance to Detective Fulbright's own dopey grins. "Shall we proceed, Ms. Cykes?"

Athena nods. "Fine. Okay, first thing first..." she mutters, focusing entirely on the Mood Matrix. Not that it helps much, though: she goes through each and every of the Phantom's statements without detecting even a hint of emotion. She sighs. "Nothing. You're doing that again, aren't you?"

"Doing what again?"

"Blocking out your emotions. You did that during the trial as well. Why are you even..." she pauses and looks up at him as the realization sinks in. If the Phantom is indeed blocking out his already limited range of emotions he's not doing so on purpose: it seems that blocking them simply comes natural to him. She frowns. "You need to stop doing that. Say all that again, okay? But this time focus on what you _felt_ in the memory."

The Phantom shakes his head. "I felt nothing."

"You may be wrong," she counters. "You may have simply blocked it out, and didn't realize it was there. Look, I can't help if I can find no emotion at all to work on. So try not to block out _anything_. Focus, don't fight it and let it flow. Let's try again."

The Phantom seems less than amused, but he complies and repeats what he said before – but more slowly this time, pausing from time to time to focus. And this time it doesn't take long to get _something_.

"Here!" Athena exclaims when the Mood Matrix finally shows something – an emotion. Weak, yes, barely even there, but it's still the first emotion the Mood Matrix has registered and a welcomed change from the absolute nothingness of the previous attempt. "See? When you recalled seeing those kids, you were happy."

The Phantom doesn't look convinced. "I beg to differ."

"Not _now_, maybe, but you were back then. There is still at least an echo of that emotion – you just didn't realize it was there," Athena says, and allows herself to smile. "Okay, now we've got something to work on."

"Do we? I cannot imagine why I should have been happy to see a bunch of street urchins like that. It's more likely that I was glad to see the stove, or the cash."

"No, that's not it. See? The feeling of happiness is there only in one moment, when you talk about seeing the kids. Then there is nothing again in the next segment."

"That makes no sense."

"Well..." Athena taps her lower lip in thought. "Maybe they were your friends? That would explain why you were happy to see them."

"Hah!" the Phantom gives a derisive snort. "Friends? That's golden. They were little more than children."

"And perhaps so were you."

Simon's statement catches them both by surprise. He's been silent in the past several minutes, and Athena realizes she forgot he was even there.

"I beg your pardon?" the Phantom says dryly, and Simon shrugs.

"Let's say she is right. Let's say they were your friends, or at least close enough to you for you to be happy to see them. As you said, they were little more than children – which makes it possible that so were you. We have no idea how far back this memory of yours goes, but if we are to assume it was from before you became a spy... then it has to be a while. Wouldn't you agree? Or had you forgotten that you, too, must have been a child? Did you come to believe you simply appeared out of thin air one day, like a real phantom?"

For a moment the Phantom doesn't react and simply stares back at Simon as though he has no idea how he came to be there. Then, slowly, he nods. "Very well. Let's say, for argument's sake, that I was around their same age. Let's say we were friends. Where does that leave us?"

Simon shrugs. "If I am guess, if you were indeed friends with – as you called them – street urchins, there is a good possibility you were one yourself. Which brings on the possibility you had no family from relatively early in life, which would make it even more difficult than it already is to find out what your identity was. Given that it's even possible as it is."

"Why, thank you," the Phantom says dryly.

"You're quite welcome," is the somewhat smug reply.

"Uh, guys? Would it kill you to focus on the plus side here?" Athena called out, causing both of them to turn to her. "We know something more than we did before, so hey, it could be worse."

"We _assume_ more than we did before," the Phantom snorts. "And assumptions will get us nowhere."

Athena smirks. "Are you sure? Last time I checked, it got some of us to win a trial," she says. "So let's keep assuming, alright? Let's assume you were very young, let's assume you lived on the streets and let's assume these other guys were your friends. That's something you can think over. You went from knowing nothing to knowing – okay, okay, _assuming_ – at least this. Maybe you could start from here. It could trigger more memories. Also, there was another moment when the Mood Matrix picked something up. Here..." she mutters, and focuses on the Mood Matrix once again. "See? There was this emotion – happiness – again. When you hid behind the column. It's faint, but it's there. Any idea why?"

The Phantom frowns, looking honestly confused. "I don't have the foggiest idea. Why on earth would I be happy to hide behind a column from some kids?"

"The question is, why would you do that in the first place?" Simon says, reaching up to rub his chin, then he smirks. "Were practicing being a spy by any chance? If that's the case, you certainly started young."

The Phantom's eyes narrow. "Like I'd let emotions interfere with my work. You of all people should know better than _that_."

"True enough. In which case there must be some other explanation on why you'd be happy while hiding from them behind a column. Any ideas?"

"Not really," the Phantom says. He lifts his hand as though to reach up to rub his chin, but the chain cuts the movement short and he has to lower it with a light scowl. "Perhaps it was something they were saying? I can't recall their words, though. I can't even recall their faces clearly. But I know they were talking. Perhaps the reason of that... _emotion_ was whatever they were talking about?"

"That's a possibility, yes," Simon agrees.

"Or maybe you were just about to scare them out of their wits," Athena suggests. "You know, like when you hide behind a door and then go 'boo!' at whoever is walking in, and- what?" she asks when Simon gives her a look that's halfway between amusement and worry. It's the kind of look that Apollo gives Trucy from time to time, often followed by something along the lines of 'sometimes I wonder about that girl'. "Hey, it could be. You get all gleeful and stuff when you're about to pull a prank like that on unsuspecting victims!"

With a sigh, Simon shakes his head. "Somehow I doubt that the solution may be anything this juvenile."

"Hey, they were kids. You can never-"

"Be _quiet!_"

The Phantom's snarl causes Athena to trail off, and both her and Simon to turn to him. He's hunched over the table as though in immense pain, holding his head with both hands, eyes squeezed shut. The chains are pulled taut, he's grasping fistfuls of hair so hard it's a wonder he's not pulling them out and his knuckles are white. And – as if all that wasn't worrying enough – he's shaking like a leaf.

"What...?" Athena begins, but she trails off when Simon holds up a hand to silence her. They both stay silent, staring at the Phantom as he shakes and holds his head and keeps his eyes squeezed shut as though in agony. She thinks back of the pain in her head and the way her whole body shook back when, during the trial, the memory of stabbing someone resurfaced from the fog that surrounded her memories of the day her mother had died – and she knows right away what's going on with the Phantom.

He's _remembering_.

* * *

"_... and so he tried to catch me, but he's getting too fat, you know, and..."_

"_... thought they'd seen me, really, but I got lucky..."_

"_... so I got in through the window and there was this necklace right there, easiest job I've ever..."_

_Busy as they are talking, none of them notices the blond boy hiding behind the column. The boy grins and inches closer, trying to decide what impression he should make. The policeman who's always trying to catch them back and forth across the streets? The crazy cat lady who yells at them every time she sees them hanging around that place? The owner of the fruit stand at the market who'd always yell he'd cut their hands off if he caught them even looking at his stuff? The reverend who keeps pretty much ambushing them and then try to talk them into the path of righteousness or whatnot? Decisions, decisions._

_He's merely inches away from them when he finally makes up his mind. He gives another gleeful grin before drawing in a deep breath and then yelling at the top of his lungs._

"You little thieves, you! Quit bothering my cats! Get lost before I call the police!"

_The impression is perfect, as usual – he's good at imitating people's voices, which really helps when the others need a local policeman to be distracted and out of the way – and everyone falls for it. There are a few yells – _"The cat lady!" "Aw, not her again!"_ – and some less than dignified shrieks from the younger kids as they all scramble on their feet and look around. One of them trips on the stove and falls face down on the floor, and that's when the boy loses it: he just starts laughing and jumps out of his hiding spot._

"_You fell for it! You fell for it again! Victory dance time!" he announces, and he actually has the time to improvise a little dance before he has to duck under various objects that are thrown at him._

"_You again! We should have known!"_

"_You almost have us a heart attack, you ass!"_

"_Payback time!"_

"_Ten points if we hit you!"_

_The boy laughs again – no matter what they're yelling, they all are laughing because this is not the first time he scares them like this and won't be the last – and snatches an apple in mid air before ducking under a few more objects . Not that he has to do that for long: the others have run out of things to throw at him "So, how did you like the Crazy Cat Lazy impression?" he asks with a grin before taking a bite from the apple. It's not quite ripe yet, but he hasn't eaten anything since morning and he's not picky._

"_So spot on that some of the little ones almost pissed their pants," one of the older boys says, still laughing._

"_Hey! I didn't piss my pants!"_

"_Me neither!"_

"_Bet you did!"_

"_Shut your face!"_

"_Guys, enough," the tallest guy of the bunch laughs and holds up his hands. "Don't make me ask him to make an impression of the reverend, too."_

_The blond boy swallows another bit of the apple and grins. "Reverend? I've got it," he says, and the next moment he speaks in an almost mournful tone, sounding everything like an old man and causing the others to laugh. "Children, children. You shouldn't fight, that is not right. You shouldn't steal, either. Why don't you come over to listen to some words from the Good Book? I'm sure it would show you the way. Here, let us pray together for... uh... oh, what the hell, no idea how that thing even goes," the boy mutters with a shrug, the old man voice turning back into a youthful one. "Forgive our sins and whatnot, and helps us against the... bwuh. Scary stuff, I guess. Lemme think... okay, got it," the boy adds, and his voice turns back into an old man's imitation. "Keep us safe from ghosts, cat ladies, fat-ass officers and common cold. And then blah, blah blah blah, some more blah. Amen. Hey, I'm hungry. What else have we got here aside from apples?"_

_There is some bread, as it turns out, and cookies and eggs that someone managed to take away from some hens without being caught by the farmer. They can't cook them, but it doesn't really matter: the boy likes them raw, too, with a pinch of salt and then drank directly from the shell. None of them is picky. By the time the food is gone they're all sated, and in a short time they're huddled together around the stove for warmth while the sky darkens and the rain keeps falling._

"_You know what? Someday we should catch one of those damn cats and cook it. For real. The cat lady is so sure we're going to do it anyway, so we'd at least prove her right," someone suggests a little sleepily._

"_You criminal! Heartless scum!" the boy mutters, once again in a perfect impression of the cat lady's voice, and there are a few more chuckles from the ones still awake. _

"_Keep that up and you'll forget how to speak with your own voice," someone jests, and the thought makes the boy chuckle before he closes his eyes and falls into a slumber. Soon enough the sound of rain fades, as does the others' breathing, and there is nothing left but darkness and silence._

* * *

The pain in his head starts fading slowly, much like the memory itself. But unlike it, it doesn't fade entirely: some of it stays, a dull throb behind his eyes. He keeps his eyes shut, head resting on the table, and somehow he comes to find it oddly soothing.

_Throb. Throb. Throb._

"... I don't know, is he even conscious?" Athena Cykes' voice reaches him as though for a mile away, and the throb turns into a sudden, stabbing pain that gets a groan out of him. He opens his eyes, but the sudden light makes him wince and shut them again. God, his head is _killing_ him.

"It looks like he is. Don't call the guard just yet," Blackquill voice follows. "Phantom. Can you hear us?"

The Phantom lets out a groan, eyes still shut, and has to breathe in and out a few times before he trusts himself to speak. "Yes," he rasps, and dares to crack his eyes open. His head keeps throbbing, but it's overall bearable. Slowly, he pushes himself back up from the desk and leans against the backrest. He clears his throat before turning his attention back Blackquill and Cykes; she looks somewhat worried, while Blackquill's expression and pose shows nothing at all – as usual.

"I should hope that this little show means you remembered at least something," Blackquill says quietly.

"I did," the Phantom says, his mouth so dry that for a moment he wishes for a glass of water almost more than anything. "And it was... it was my own, I believe. It was me. If only they called me by name... why didn't _anyone_ call me by name?" he snarls, his hands balling into fists. It may be a memory, but so far it's useless – it tells him so very little. Why hadn't anyone of those brats – friends, had they really been his _friends_? – called him by name at least once, so he could at least know what he was _called_?

"One step at time," Cykes speaks up. "Tell us what you remembered."

He does, and it takes little time to do so: it's not an especially long memory, nor it's a meaningful one. Still, the Phantom has to wonder – if dredging up something of such little importance took such a toll on him, how much worse may it get when the time comes for him to remember something more... more meaningful?

A part of him dreads the thought, but it's a price he's willing to pay to have his name and identity back.

"Hey, so I was right! Waiting for your apology, Simon," Cykes grins as soon as the Phantom is done talking. Blackquill seems slightly miffed, but pays no heed to her words and just focuses on the Phantom.

"It seems that our theories were confirmed, then. You lived on the streets when still young, which I assume means you lacked a family. Hmph. That may make everything more difficult."

"There must be something," the Phantom says, trying and failing to think of anything in the memory that may give him any further information on who he _is_. "There _must_. A birth certificate, or... anything! If only one of them said my _name_...!"

"But none of them did, and thus there is no point dwelling in it," Blackquill cuts him off. "Besides, what we uncovered today is a starting point. Now that you dredged up a memory of your own, others may follow."

The Phantom gives a low, empty laugh. "That's oddly optimistic of you, Prosecutor Blackquill."

"I'd say I'm simply stating a fact. Whatever the reason may be, your memories were locked away and forgotten about. We established that the use of the Mood Matrix on the fragments you could dig back up can help you uncover more. If we used the Mood Matrix on you once more, on the memory you brought back just now, we're likely to find more emotions we can use to trigger more memories. Think of them as a jig-saw puzzle," Blackquill adds. "You can work even missing the central piece; in most cases you must do so, for you don't _know_ what the central piece even is. But the more pieces you have, the clearer the picture becomes – until you realize that the central piece has been there all along, waiting for you to see it. Which means," he says, leaning forward on the table, "that from here on there is only one way to go – _forward_. Piece after piece, until the truth becomes clear. Or did you expect the answers you seek to be given to you on a silver platter, Phantom? Are you hesitating now? Are you scared of what you may uncover?"

Being called that – _Phantom_ – by Blackquill leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but the Phantom chooses to ignore it. "I suppose you have a point," he concedes, and turns back to Cykes. "Well then. I am not scared. Shall we get your device to work?"

"We will, but not today," Blackquill says, and pushes his chair back to stand. "Next time. You may not be able to see yourself, but we can and you're not fit to continue. See if you can bring back any other memory to work on before the next session."

"What? No!" the Phantom blurts out, knocking back his own chair to stand and slamming chained hands against the table's surface. "There is no reason to wait! Do it now! Cykes!" he barks, turning to glare at her – who, on the other hand, is looking at them without speaking. "Get that thing working! I want to- AAGH!" he trails off with a cry when electricity runs through him, causing him to jerk. His knees give in, and he crumbles on foot of the table – his hands still held up by the handcuffs. "Black... quill! You'll... you!" he gasps, not even knowing what he's even trying to say. He hates him, he thinks, he hates him more than anything, and if only his hands were free...!

"Consider it a reminder. We won't be taking orders from you," Blackquill says, and the Phantom can hear him and Cykes stepping away and toward the door over his own labored breathing. "Besides, I think you achieved enough for one session."

"Achieved enough? This is not enough! Not even close!" the Phantom gasps, forcing himself back on his feet. He leans heavily on the table to support himself and glares at Blackquill's retreating back. "I achieved _nothing_!"

Blackquill stops and turns to glance at him with a somewhat twisted smirk. "What, have you not realized it? How curious."

The Phantom blinks, his gaze shifting from Blackquill to Cykes and then back to him. "Realized?" he repeats. "Realized what?"

This time it isn't Blackquill to reply – it's Cykes. "Your voice," she simply says.

"My... voice?" the Phantom repeats, faintly wondering if he just heard wrong. What is she even...?

"It's not Detective Fulbright's anymore," Blackquill speaks up. "It's someone else's. Perhaps it belongs to someone else whose identity you stole. Or perhaps," he adds before turning and reaching for the doorknob, "this is what your _real_ voice sounds like."

And then the door opens and closes and they're gone, leaving the Phantom too stunned to say anything.


	3. The Assassin

"My voice. _My_ voice. Mine. _Mine_."

He has been going on like this for a while – it's not like you can come up with much to say to bare prison walls – but the Phantom has yet to get tired of it, of how the simple words roll off his tongue. It sounds good. It sounds right. It is _his_ voice. It has to be: he has spent hours trying to match it to _any_ of the voices he had to imitate in the part of his life he can remember, and he has found that no match works. And he never forgets a face he's had to wear or a voice he's had to fake. Never. So the only possibility left is that this one voice – nowhere as vibrant and somewhat rougher than Fulbright's was, but surprisingly warm – must be his own.

He has a voice now, and maybe he'll soon have a name, too. And a past, or at least some answers.

The Phantom's wrists are still shackled, but this time there is nothing that keeps him from reaching up and touching the scar on his forehead. Perhaps he'll find out what happened, who shot him and when, and if indeed the brain damage – there must have been some after being shot in the head, after all – has indeed anything to do with the blank slate his life seems to have been up to the point he put on his very first mask and took on his very first assignment.

He knows that his sense of _self_ has faded over time, mission after mission until he couldn't even recall what his own face looked like, and for a long time he has assumed that his memories from _before_ faded the same way – gradually sinking into the fog in the back of his mind until they were no more. But now he's aware of another possibility: that his memories were taken from him at one specific point in time, with the squeeze of a trigger and the blast of a gunshot. His memories and, perhaps, a great part of what were his emotions.

That is perhaps the oddest thing he's had to consider since he's seen his true face and the old bullet scar on his forehead: that his lack of emotions – though 'limited emotional response' is more correct, all things considered – may be a trait he hasn't had since birth. That it may have been caused, and that his ability to perceive emotions like anyone else was taken from him. That at some point, he may have had emotions.

At some point, he may have been human.

The memory of a laughing, still nameless boy with blond hair and blue eyes improvising a victory dance over successfully scaring some—

_friends_

—kids comes back to his mind in a brief flash, causing his head to throb once more and him to shut his eyes. Yes, he thinks, that must be it. The boy he has been clearly had emotions. He laughed, and was genuinely happy to see other people, and none of it was faked. The boy was _human_.

And now? Is he even human now, or is he just a pale shadow of one – a ghost through and thorough?

The Phantom still cannot answer to that. He opens his eyes and looks up, through the small window high up on his cell's wall, closed by thick iron bars. It is a clear night, and from his cell – the cell that has once been Blackquill's – he had quite a good view of the night sky. The Phantom can remember him saying something about it during Solomon Starbuck's trial, now that he thinks about it.

_Take heart. The bejeweled night sky is still beautiful even when viewed through bars._

"... Heh. I suppose he had a point," he says to the empty cell, savoring the sound of his own voice one more time before falling silent and simply losing himself to the view.

* * *

The grave is a simple enough thing: a name, a surname, a string of numbers, a picture. Only two things set it apart from those around: the symbol of the LA Police Department beneath the picture and the amount of flowers and tokens of respect all around it. It's hardly a surprise to Blackquill: Detective Bobby Fulbright was well-liked in the department. Not only that, but the knowledge he's been dead for over a year with none of his friends and colleagues knowing any better dealt quite a blow to many people – people who now seem to feel they they need to make up for the time his death stayed unacknowledged.

Blackquill closes his eyes and recalls the day of the long-due funeral. It was a solemn ceremony, as it always was for a police officer killed on duty, and he cannot recall anyone present whose eyes stayed dry all the way through. Aside from his own, but then again Blackquill has forgotten how to weep long ago; prison has taken all the tears he could possibly shed in a lifetime.

Still, he did acknowledge the sense of loss aching in his chest. He felt foolish for that: it wasn't like he had truly lost someone he knew, and he wondered why had he even bothered to attend. And yet he wasn't the only one to feel that way: both Wright and Justice had been silent, he recalls, and clearly saddened. And Athena... Athena had wept, too, a hand over her mouth and her other hand gripping his sleeve. She had pulled herself together in the end, though, as she always does. As one of Fulbright's friends broke down in sobs in the middle of a speech and had to be helped back to a seat, she had let go of his sleeve to grab his hand instead. Her fingers felt so much warmer than his own.

"I'm sorry," she had said. For a moment Blackquill had almost told her that she shouldn't be, that none of them had lost anyone – how do you lose someone you never truly met? – and that it was ridiculous to even _be_ there. But in the end he had said none of those things and simply stared at the picture on the tombstone.

It is a rather unusual picture for a grave, he thinks now as he looks at it one more time: Detective Fulbright's foolish grin is hardly befitting a place of mourning such as a cemetery. A part of Blackquill absolutely _hates_ it how identical it is to the Phantom's own imitation, because now he can hardly look at it without his blood boiling over the deception he let himself fall for. Annoying as the man he believed to be Fulbright may be, Blackquill cannot fool himself into thinking that the man's – entirely faked – belief in him and a possible reform did not mean something to him. How could it _not_, after seven years on death row, seen as a monster by all but few in the world?

"Would you have believed in me, Detective Fulbright?" he asks quietly. There is no reply – of course it would be quite worrying if there _was_ any – but Blackquill cannot keep himself from thinking back of the Phantom's words on the matter.

_He would have been the same, I'm certain. He would have supported you. He would have wanted to think the best of you. He would have believed in you to the very end. Haven't I mentioned what an utterly trusting fool he was? _

While he cannot take that man's words at face value, Blackquill finds himself wishing to believe them. "I wish we could have met, Detective," he says, eyes lingering on the photo one more time. At least, he thinks for no particular reason, his death was quick and painless. Or so the Phantom claimed; for the second time in a mere minute Blackquill wishes he could believe his words.

A screech high above him causes Blackquill to raise his gaze. Taka is flying in circle above him, free as the wind; for years Blackquill observed him flying through prison bars, bitterness and longing eating away at his heart. He remembers wishing he had wings as well in his bleakest moments, and several times he had thought that, hadn't it been for the bars, he would have tried to climb up to the window and let himself go. Granted, it would have been quite the brief flight – but it would have delivered him from those chains at last. The more time passed and his chances at proving his innocent dwindled, the more the idea attracted him; Blackquill hates to admit to himself how much Fulbright's presence – what he _thought_ was Fulbright's presence – has helped him chase away those moments of weakness.

Still, it's quite ironic. He wonders if the Phantom is even aware of the fact the act he kept up helped him get back on his feet more than once, gave him the determination he needed to keep going with his investigation and never entirely lose hope. He wonders if he had any idea that, without 'Detective Fulbright', his own downfall may have never happened.

Above him Taka lets out another shriek and flies right up against the sun, causing Blackquill to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. It occurs to him that he's been standing there for some time now, and he's not even sure what time it is. A quick glance at his watch tells him right away that in less than a hour there will be another session with Athena and the Phantom, and he knows it's time to get moving: he may not be necessary for those sessions, but it doesn't mean he's going to make Athena face the Phantom alone. Besides, he feels it's his duty to be there... for whose sake – Athena's or his own? – he's not quite certain. Yet.

Blackquill gives one last, long glance at Bobby Fulbright's grave before turning away and leaving in silence.

* * *

"There _must_ be something!"

Athena scowls, looking away from the Mood Matrix's screen. "Well, there _isn't_," she snaps. It certainly doesn't take analytical psychology to detect the anger in the Phantom's voice, and despite her own anger she's suddenly grateful for the fact both his hands are chained down to the table. "Either you're blocking out emotions again, or there is none left in the memory. None that can still be detected anyway," she adds. "I don't think we're going to be able to get anything more out of this memory."

The Phantom's hands clench into fists and snort, his frustration plain as day. Maybe it would have been easier if there had been no progress on the first session, Athena thinks, if he hadn't uncovered a memory and found what was likely his own voice right off the bat. It caused the Phantom to expect too much from each session, which can only lead to frustration: that their progress was unlikely to be steady was pretty much a given. Expecting otherwise isn't logical, and the fact alone the Phantom clearly did shows better than anything how the man's strictly logical mindset is starting to slip away, letting emotions get in the way.

In a way she supposes even that is a step forward, but she highly doubts the Phantom will think of it that way.

"Perhaps you need time to remember more," Simon speaks up. He's been oddly quiet through most of the session – not that's it's been a long one, really – and his words cause her to recoil: truth to be told, she had almost forgotten his presence. "As things are, it's obvious that more sessions would be a waste of our time."

The Phantom narrows his eyes. "And what if I can't recall anything else?"

"Then you will never know who you are, and your bones shall rest in a nameless grave. Nothing more than what you deserve," Simon says flatly. "But, since I know that's not something you want, I'd suggest you to try harder to remember."

"I can't remember anything else!"

"Perhaps you're not trying hard enough," Simon replies, his voice still flat and uninterested. Athena can't help but think that today he truly sounds like his mind is somewhere else entirely. "So keep trying, or give up. It depends on you. It's none of my concern, after all."

"IT SHOULD BE!"

Athena lets out a surprised gasp and recoils when she Phantom slams his hands on the surface of the desk and stands, eyes ablaze, straining against the chains binding his wrists. He looks positively insane, features twisted almost to the point of being unrecognizable, but Simon only meets his gaze with an unimpressed look that seems to anger the Phantom even more.

"Don't try lying, Blackquill! I know you must want to know who I am as much as I do myself! You want to know who the man who fooled you for a year is! You want to know! You want to know who killed your precious mentor! Admit it! _Admit it already_!"

Simon's bored expression changes right away: his gaze darkens, his brow furrows, his jaw clenches. "Speak no further. You've gone stark raving mad."

The Phantom throws back his head and laughs, a ugly hollow sound. "Oh no. No, I'm sane as I've ever been. _You're_ insane of you think I'll buy your little act! Do tell me, Blackquill – how many nights have you spent awake wondering how could you be so fooled? How could you fall so utterly for my little act?" he smiles, a smile that bears a horrible resemblance to Fulbright's own smiles. "How betrayed have you felt? How hurt? You won't fool me, Blackquill! You may act like it was nothing all you want, but I know bet- AAAAAGH!"

Athena clasps her hand over her mouth as Simon reaches in his pocket and electricity courses through the Phantom's body for several long moments... and then more, and _more_, causing him to collapse on the ground, hands held up by the handcuffs, jerking and screaming, and... and...

"Simon! Enough! ENOUGH!" Athena cries out, instinctively reaching out to grab Simon's shoulder. He seems to snap out of some sort of trance and recoils, his thumb finally leaving the remote's button. The electric shock ends and for a few moments the Phantom stills, on his knees on the floor, breathing heavily. Then...

"... Ha. Hah. Haha. Hahahah!"

It's the most horrible laugh Athena can recall ever listening to, and she bites her lower lip as the Phantom laughs and laughs and laughs. And the most horrible part of it, she realizes as she looks down at the still operating Mood Matrix, is that he _means_ it: the Mood Matrix is picking up happiness coming from him all of a sudden. But what... why? He was just given an electric shock powerful and long enough to put down a bull – what _is_ there that makes him so happy?

She has no time to wonder: the next moment laughter has died down and the Phantom is struggling to stand, eventually succeeding in leaning on the table. He gasps for breath, looks up at Simon and – to Athena's surprise and revulsion – _smiles_.

"Would you like to kill me, Prosecutor Blackquill? I'm sure you would, and you don't like it. You must have felt so much hatred these years, _so much_ it must have changed you. Is that why you were so accepting of your execution? You know what they say – you either die a hero, or live long enough to become the-"

"_Silence!_" Simon snaps, bringing his fist down on the table mere inches from the Phantom's chained hands. He stays silent as well for a moment of two before speaking. "You're truly desperate, Phantom. Grasping for straws. Hate you? As I believe I stated mere days ago, you're not worth the _effort_," he says, his voice once again flat. "I do not hate you. Hatred would be far more than you deserve. You are no one and deserve nothing," he adds, but Athena is barely listening to his words – she's listening to something else, to the voice of his heart, and she can sense the discord there, strong and clear.

_He's lying_.

The realization has barely even sunk in when the Phantom laughs again, and Athena senses it plainly – _discord_. There is discord in him as well. He's laughing as he did a minute ago, but this time he doesn't mean it at all. She looks down to the Mood Matrix to see another emotion showing, and it's... sadness? Fear? Pain? Athena can't tell which, but the fact stays that the Phantom's emotions – the ones he's letting out now that the walls have been torn down for a brief time – have shifted drastically at Simon's words. At Simon's _lies_. Does Simon know this? Was causing this – hurting him – his intention all along?

"Liar," the Phantom wheezes, his voice reeking desperation from a mile away. "You may keep... telling yourself that. But it mattered to you. _Fulbright_ mattered to you. You trusted him – trusted _me_ – so don't you think you can fool me by saying it simply don't-"

"SILENCE!"

The Phantom screams again, his body jerking, and falls back on the floor. The electric shock doesn't last as long as it did last time, but it's just as powerful, and by the time it ends the Phantom is motionless, his arms hanging limply from the handcuffs. Only his labored breathing tells Athena he's still conscious; as for Simon, he doesn't even bother to check: he simply pushes back his chair and stands. "We're done for today," is all he says before turning his back to him, turning his back to Athena, and walking out of the room without another word.

But, this time, Athena doesn't follow: for a few moments she can only stand there, head spinning as she tries to figure out what exactly went on between those two. She's snapped from her confusion by a harsh sound coming from the Phantom's crumpled form – one that sounds less like harsh breathing and more like a choked-back sob.

_Is he...?_

"Phantom?" she hears herself calling out, feeling somewhat stupid for calling him _that_ aloud. She looks down at him uneasily: his head hangs low, so she cannot see his expression, but there is no mistaking the stiffness in his frame, she almost unnoticeable shaking of his shoulders.

"You heard the Prosecutor," the Phantom says tightly, with the voice of a man trying his hardest to maintain control. "This session is over. Leave me."

"But-"

"LEAVE!"

The scream causes her to recoil, and this time she wastes no time before rushing to the door: the Phantom may be chained down, but that doesn't make the madness in his cry any less unsettling.

* * *

"Simon, wait up! Simon! _Simon_!"

Blackquill forces himself to stop walking and draws in a deep breath when he hears Athena calling after him. What a fool he was, losing control like that: he should have known better. He should have had better control on himself. He knew he would have to explain himself to her afterward, and that's just about the worst thing he'd like to do now. If anything because he's not entirely sure he wants to admit his anger to _himself_. Doing so would mean acknowledging just how important Fulbright's support was to him despite everything infuriating about the man, and how deeply knowing the truth has hurt.

He would have to admit that the Phantom is right, that sometimes he cannot sleep at night because the thought of the betrayal burns in his mind like acid. Sometimes he does sleep, but then he dreams Fulbright, of his bumbling optimism and support while working on some case and talking about reforming him... before his face just melts away to reveal nothing underneath and Blackquill awakens with a start, struggling to choke back a scream.

He would have to admit what he's most ashamed of – that he hates the Phantom because he tricked into growing attached to the man he pretended to be, that he hates him more because of that than because of his mentor's murder. What kind of man has he allowed the Phantom to turn him into? What man with any honor feels more anger for a slight to their person than they do for the murder of their mentor?

"Simon?"

"Athena," he says quietly, letting her step by his side before he resumes walking. "I apologize for losing control like that. The Phantom was..."

"Baiting you. I could tell," Athena finishes for him. "I'm surprised _you_ couldn't. I mean, you're... all about this kind of things," she adds.

Blackquill sighs. "I was foolish and let my frustration get the better of me. I visited Detective Fulbright's grave this morning," he adds. "I'm afraid it didn't put me in the right frame of mind to deal with the Phantom."

"Oh," Athena says, and for a few minutes they simply walk in silence, out of the building and into the street – but he knows she silence won't last for long. And it doesn't.

"I wonder what was that all for. The baiting, I mean. He pushed you deliberately so that you'd... what? Give him an electric shock? It makes no sense," she finally says.

Blackquill givers a bitter smile. "The Phantom is a twisted man, much like myself. I doubt even he knows precisely what he was trying to accomplish. Let it go – this has nothing to do with his past or name, after all. Don't give him more thought than he's worth."

She sighs. "I won't. But, Simon... whatever it was, it needs to be sorted out."

That causes Blackquill to stop walking once again and look back at her. "What?" he asks, taken aback. He isn't sure what he expected her to say, but this isn't it.

"Listen, the Phantom... that man has a hard time letting his emotions show. You know that better than anyone. He can smother them easily, and he can do that without even thinking – it's just how he works by _default_. For the Mood Matrix to pick up anything, he must _focus_ on showing them. But after, well, this... he may close up again, and then finding out who he is may prove impossible, no matter how much we all try. For the sessions to give any results, there cannot be any more scenes like... like the one today."

Blackquill clenches his jaw. "As I said earlier, it's his loss," he says, but he knows there is more at stake than just the Phantom's peace of mind: they need to get information out of him, and the only way to do that is convincing him to speak by giving him what he wants – a name and an identity.

Athena draws in a deep breath. "Simon, I can carry on these sessions on my own if you don't-"

"No," Blackquill snaps, cutting her off immediately. No, that will not do – that _cannot_ do. Athena is strong, has always been, but he promised himself he'd protect her at the best of his possibilities and he's not going to leave her alone with the Phantom. Of course, she wouldn't be alone – other people could go with her, capable people who care for her, but still... still, it's his responsibility. He _knows_ it is. "No, I want to keep going. And I see your point. Go home," he adds, stopping in his tracks. "I'll go back."

The prospect seems to worry her a bit. "Are you sure...?"

Blackquill nods. "Yes. I forgot myself for a moment in there, this much is true, but I won't do so again. I'll speak with the Phantom, and make clear the sessions will end next time he tries to start any mind games. I already told him he's not making the rules," he adds, and turns to glance back at the prison he has spent seven years of his life into. "It's time to remind him just that."

* * *

It takes almost twice the usual time for the Phantom to be back in his cell. The electric shocks have taken quite the toll on him, and his limbs wouldn't seem to respond at first. Now he can walk, but he feels heavy and sluggish, and his legs are starting to hurt. Few things are unpleasant as muscle spasms caused by electricity, he muses as his cell's door slides open and the guard gestures for him to walk inside.

He does, his mind still unfocused due to the earlier ordeal, and he doesn't even take notice of the fact the cell's door isn't closing behind him yet. He doesn't hear anyone approaching. He doesn't realize the guard who brought him there is coming to stand right behind him.

He _does_ feel, however, the length of wire that suddenly tightens on his throat like a snare.

* * *

"Sorry, sir, but he was already brought back to his cell. If you wish we could call back-"

Blackquill snorts and dismissively waves a hand. "No reason for that. I'll go to his cell personally. I know the way, after all," he adds, causing the officer to shut his mouth and look down. Not about to assuage his discomfort – he can hardly say prison guards treated him with much respect in the years he spent there – Blackquill turns his back to him and goes up the stairs.

The walk to the cells where prisoners are held in isolation isn't a long one, which is good: it isn't precisely pleasant, either. He wonders how many times he walked through that long hallway with shackles at his wrists as a prisoner, a convicted murder, a bird in a cage. Far too many, in far too many years that he has lost and that nothing will ever give him back. Blackquill is wondering how the Phantom likes that place when a sound reaches his ears – that of someone choking.

In his years in prison Blackquill has seen two men dying, both of them having hung themselves to their cell's bars with torn sheets or whatever else they could get their hands onto. One other man survived, though, because Blackquill himself heard the choking noises leaving him the night he tried to kill himself and alerted the guards.

And it sounded everything like the sound he hears now.

That the Phantom may attempt to kill himself hasn't occurred to Blackquill before, but it does now and it fills his mind with something remarkably close to panic... and with anger. After all that man did, after all the suffering he caused, he _dares_ think he deserves the easy way out?

_No. No, I won't allow you! _

The choking noise comes again, a little weaker now, and Blackquill finds himself running. He runs though the hallway, rounds past the corner and then-

And then what he sees is not what he expected.

The cell's door is open, which is already wrong on its own, but that's the last of Blackquill's worries: inside the cell the Phantom is on his knees, a prison guard behind him and strangling him with a length of wire. He can't see the guard's face, for it's covered by the police hat's visor, but he can see the Phantom's – skin purplish and lips almost blue, eyes bloodshot and bulging with panic as his efforts to break free grow weaker; his hands clumsily clawing at his own throat as though trying to dislodge the wire.

Then he looks towards him and their eyes meet, and the shock that seemed to encase Blackquill like ice shatters. Next thing he knows, Blackquill is though the door, inside the cell and on the assassin – because he's an assassin in disguise, he must be – and gives him a powerful shove. Caught by surprise, the man tumbles back and the wire slips away from his grasp.

Vaguely, as though from a mile away, Blackquill can hear the Phantom collapsing on the floor, coughing and gagging before drawing in a convulsive breath. And, for a moment, he thinks that the cell is still open, that the Phantom may try to escape and he cannot allow it – but the next instant the assassin is up again, and takes all of his attention. Blackquill braces himself for a fight, expecting the man to attack – only that he doesn't, not right away. Instead he straightens himself, looks at him and gives a long sigh.

"How bothersome of you to intrude. And how unwise," he says. The hat has fallen and Blackquill can see he's an aging man, with mostly white hair and a long series of stitches across his whole face, from his forehead down to his chin. "I'm afraid you must die," the man adds, and moves quick as lighting: he lifts his right arm and flicks a hand at him, as though to shoo him away.

"Wha-" is all Blackquill can say before he feels it – a sharp pain and a sudden coldness in his gut.

_He has thrown a knife._

The realization hits the same moment he feels the warmth of blood leaving his body and soaking through his clothes. Blackquill looks down to see the knife's handle protruding from his stomach, and he can only give a sound of desperate denial before his knees give and he falls. His thoughts getting muddled – I_'m about to die and I'm about to die for his sake of all people, oh Gods what a jest this is_ – Blackquill barely even feels the impact with the cold hard floor; all he can feel is the coldness of metal in his flesh and the warmth of blood leaving his body to pool around him.

_Like it pooled around his mentor, around Metis Cykes' lifeless body, all around him and all over the small child Athena had been._

"I regret it has come to this," the assassin's voice comes from above him, and Blackquill forces his eyes open. He can see, however fuzzily, the man towering over him; he can see him leaning down on his, his hand reaching for the knife lodged in his stomach_. _Maybe he'll twist it, or pull it out and end him, or-

"_Ack!"_

And then the hand jerks back, a choking noise leaving the man's mouth. Blackquill has to blink a few times to see clearly, but when he does he can see that the Phantom's chain is around the man's throat, and the Phantom himself is behind him, pulling tight and holding him in the same kind of choke-hold the man used on him. But a chain is not wire, and the Phantom is clearly weakened from the earlier struggle; as the assassin struggles to break free it's plain even to Blackquill's fogged mind that the Phantom won't be able to hold him still for long. And the Phantom must know it, too, for the next moment he calls out with a voice that sounds like he's gargling glass.

"The remote! Blackquill! _The remote_!"

_The remote. _

The word alone is enough to bring a sudden clarity to Blackquill's mind, the Phantom's idea now so obvious Blackquill almost scoffs at himself for not thinking about it first. His hand reaches in his pocket and closes around a small object that, not too long ago, the man he believed to be Detective Fulbright would use on him when he acted up – and that he used on the Phantom that very same day.

_And now he asks me to use it on him again. How ironic._

Blackquill smirks despite the situation and presses the button.

Two cries follow, one higher and another more of a hoarse gasp, but Blackquill can see the Phantom tightening his grip around the assassin as electricity courses through him; they have to knock him out, they both know it, and this means a far longer electric shock than one would usually administer; so Blackquill keeps pressing down the button and hopes – what an odd thing to hope in such circumstances – that it won't result with anyone's death. He wouldn't shed tear for either of them, as much is certain... but he hasn't spent seven years in prison, waiting for the day he'd be proved innocent of the accusation of murder, to become a murderer _now_.

That, and the Phantom still has _a lot_ to tell the police.

The two men finally fall on the ground and, after what feels like an eternity, Blackquill dares pull his thumb away from the button. There is a groan and, while the assassin stays motionless, the Phantom shifts. Somehow he's still conscious, and he manages to disentangle himself from the assassin's limp body – but then he can only crawl near Blackquill before slumping down as well, breathing harshly.

"Prosecutor Blackquill?" he rasps, not too far away from Blackquill's head. "Are you... still...?"

"Alive, yes. For now," Blackquill manages to mutter back, even though darkness seems to be growing around him and speaking is so much more difficult. The smell of blood filling his nostrils, his own blood, almost makes him gag. "You... stopped him. The cell's door was... it was open. You could have..." he pauses and draws in a deep breath, and he doesn't need to finish the sentence: he knows the Phantom knows exactly what he's thinking.

_You could have ran away. Left me behind for the assassin to finish and ran to seek help, or escape._

A hoarse, faint chuckle reaches his ears, followed by a pained hiss. The Phantom's throat must be hurting horribly, Blackquill muses somewhat distantly.

"Instinct, I suppose," he finally rasps, and Blackquill chuckles in the growing darkness as consciousness starts slipping away, slowly but surely. Blackquill wonders if he'll ever wake up again. But help must come, it must, for some _must_ have heard the screams.

"Fool. Fool... Bright," he hears himself muttering, and the Phantom gives a harsh barking sound that may be meant to be a laugh.

"It's been... it's been real... prosecutor Blackquill. Now do me a favor and don't... don't die on me. I still need your help. Or at least stay alive enough to tell... tell your little friend I didn't... didn't do it. I was serious when I said I... I want a name... to call my own... before I die."

Now unable to even keep his eyes open, Blackquill smirks. "I'll try," he says but this time there is no answer.

_Has he passed out? Is he dead? _

"Phantom?" he calls out, blinding reaching out for him; his hand wraps around the other mans' wrist, and he's relieved to feel a pulse. Not that it was really needed, for the next moment the Phantom clears all doubt by speaking again.

"Please," he says, his voice suddenly even weaker, like he's on the verge of losing consciousness as well. "Don't... don't. I'd rather... don't call me..." he pauses and lets out a wheezing breath, and then says nothing more. He must have passed out, Blackquill thinks.

"Fool Bright," he mutters again, not even knowing _why_, and it's the last thing he can manage to say he finally slips out of consciousness.


	4. Promises and Lies

It's a soft, regular and rather annoying beeping noise to welcome him back to consciousness. There is the pleasant sensation of resting on something soft, and a far less pleasant smell of disinfectant. He doesn't open his eyes right away, though: his mind needs time to actually stir, and he needs a few minutes – minutes, hours, he cannot tell – to remember what happened. When he does, then what he hears and feels makes sense: he's in a hospital, of course. Where else would he be after being stabbed?

He's in a hospital, and he's alive.

Blackquill finally opens his eyes, and immediately regrets it when his gaze meets the ceiling, impossibly white and impossibly bright against his eyes. He closes them again with a groan, and he regrets that groan as well only a moment later when a well known voice and terribly loud voice reaches his ears and causes his head to throb.

"SIMON!"

Athena, he thinks, and makes an effort to open his eyes again. This time it isn't the whit ceiling his eyes meet: this time the first thing he sees is Athena Cykes' relieved face as she looks down at him. "Athena," he says, his voice raspy, and smiles a little despite himself. It's good to see her, he thinks, it's good to be alive. "So the wound was not... mortal after all."

"Nope!" she says, shaking her head. "The knife didn't hit anything vital. You lost blood and needed some surgery and a transfusion, that's all," she says as though she's talking about putting a band-aid on a scraped knee. "You'll be back on your feet in just a little bit."

Blackquill nods. "Good to know. Please, tell me my sister knows nothing of this."

There is a laugh coming from behind Athena, and then he turns his head – not without some effort – Blackquill isn't too surprised to see both Justice and Wright standing nearby. "I'm afraid we'd lie if we did. The whole prison knows of what happened, and of course so does she," Wright says.

Justice's smile turns into a scowl. "The Phantom is a monster, plain and simple. You even tried to help him after all he did, and _this_ is how he repays you," he says.

Blackquill blinks. "Huh...?"

Athena nods, her expression hardening as well. "He's real lucky I couldn't get a hold of him. I'm sure going to give him a piece of my mind!" she says, her hands balling into fists. "I'm so glad you fried him up! If you hadn't had the remote he could have killed you. That... that... _ugh_! And I even told you to sort things out! It's my fault you got back there! If you died...!" she trails off and looks down, biting her lower lip.

Blackquill blinks again. "What...?"

Wright seems more pensive the angered in comparison to the other two. He frowns slightly and reaches up to rub his chin. "Still, I wonder about the knife. I assume he was searched prior to entering prison, and more than once. How would he even have it? And then there is-"

"If he alive?"

Blackquill's urgent question seems to take them all off guard. Wright trails off and looks back at him. "The Phantom? Yes, he is. Not precisely in good shape, but alive. You certainly didn't kill him... but I wonder about something other than the electric shock. That mark on his neck the police told us about, for example. It doesn't seem to be an electric burn at all. It's more like-"

"A wire," Blackquill speaks, the realization of what they all have assumed finally sinking in. He's almost ashamed of himself for not realizing it right away, obvious as it is – they thought that the Phantom had tried to kill him. "The mark was left by a wire, when the assassin tried to strangle him."

To his credit, Wright doesn't look quite as surprised as the other two.

"Assassin?" Athena asks, wincing and looking down at him in confusion.

Justice looks just as lost. "Strangle him?" he repeats, and Blackquill nods before quickly explaining what happened – the scene he walked in, his reaction, the assassin throwing the knife, the Phantom taking him in a choke-hold before he could finish him.

"... and that's when I pressed the switch to give them both an electric shock. It was the quickest way to knock him out, and the Phantom knew it as well as I did. It worked, but it made him lose consciousness as well. I followed soon after. I don't know what happened next, but I assume they did not find the assassin there."

Wright sighs. "Oh, I'm afraid they did, but let him walk away. He awoke first and said he had tried to stop the Phantom from attacking you, but had been knocked unconscious. He was still wearing a prison guard uniform, so they didn't question his word. He left soon afterward to 'rest', and I'm afraid he's well beyond out grasp by now. Actually, from what you told me about his looks, I'm rather sure I know just who he is," he adds before reaching in his pocket for a cell phone. "I'll go make a call. De Killer may try to strike again, which means the surveillance on the Phantom should be at least doubled. We had no idea he was the attack's target. You try getting better soon, alright? Being stuck in a hospital room so soon after prison can't be fun," he adds with a small nod, and Blackquill answers with a nod of his own.

"I'll try," is all he says as Wright leaves the room, then he turns to Athena and Justice. "Where is he? The Phantom?"

"He's in the prison's infirmary. He had nothing serious enough to warrant the risk of bringing him to the hospital," Justice replies before turning away, his gaze dark. Blackquill can understand him well: the pain of his best friend's death is a fresh, still bleeding wound the only gets worse when his murderer is mentioned.

"He hasn't awakened yet. Actually, I think they sedated him to be safe," Athena says. She looks as though something is troubling her, but Blackquill doesn't ask. Instead, he tries to lift himself a little and holds back a groan at the resulting pain.

"Hey, don't move! You need to rest!" Athena says, putting her hands on her hips. Blackquill is about to tell her he knows what his body can take better than anyone else when the door slams open and a familiar – and sometimes much dreaded – rushes in.

"Prosecutor Blackquill! You're alright! I was so worried! Mr. Edgeworth told him to come here and see how you were doing, so I rushed like whoa. I got a ticket for speeding, really, but-"

Blackquill closes his eyes, too dizzy to even try truly listening to any of Detective Gumshoe's incessant babbling. He wonders, not for the first time, if Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth meant to jest when he chose him to be his new assigned detective. From one bumbling detective – _ah, but it wasn't real, was it?_ – to the other, indeed.

But, if anything, Dick Gumshoe seems to be exactly who he appears: a well-intentioned, sometimes infuriating dense detective without a single mean bone in his body. Blackquill wasn't too surprised to learn, when he first met him, that he had been good friends with the _real_ Bobby Fulbright.

"He was fresh out of the police academy when we met, you know," he had told him once, eyes moist and fixed on the floor. "He asked me to help him out when he got stuck on his first case. Most rookies don't do that, 'cause it would make them look bad and they want to prove they're good. But he didn't care, you know? He said justice was more important than some praise, and he didn't want to take any chances just to look good. He was the best of his lot, pal – I mean, Prosecutor," he had added, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "I still can't believe the Phantom... we even had lunch together, he helped me pick Maggey's birthday gift, and I never knew... to think Bobby was gone for a _year_, and I didn't..." he had paused and sniffled before excusing himself and leaving the room in a hurry.

When all the paperwork was filled out and Bobby Fulbright's funeral was held a couple of days after that conversation, Blackquill hadn't been surprised to see Gumshoe there, bawling louder than anyone else through the whole ceremony.

"Prosecutor? Are you alright? Do you need something? If you do just asks away, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Blackquill. Maybe I could get you a sandwich, or-"

"I, uh, don't think he's supposed to eat anything so soon after surgery," Justice says just as Blackquill opens his eyes again.

"I am fine, detective. You can tell the Chief Prosecutor as much; I'll be back in court as soon as the doctors shall allow me. Until then, I have to ask you to feed Taka in my stead."

Gumshoe brightens up visibly, clearly relieved by his answer. "Oh, sure! I'm looking after him already, really. Maggey really likes him," he adds, as though it's something Blackquill ought to be interested in knowing. Blackquill just nods, trying not to think of all the times he had to remind Fulbright – _the Phantom_ – to feed Taka when he could not.

"Thank you. Athena, can I ask you to tell my sister what really happened when you get a chance? Last thing she needs to do is breaking out of her cell to kill someone with her own hands. Tell her it wasn't the Phantom."

The thought of Aura Blackquill breaking out of her cell foaming at her mouth to murder the Phantom gets a small chuckle out of Athena. "I'll do that right away," she promises. Behind her, Gumshoe blinks in confusion.

"What really happened? What do you mean? I thought the Phantom-" he starts, only to trails off when a nurse pops her head inside the room.

"Visiting time is over," she announces, and smiles at Blackquill. "Oh, you're awake! Good. I'll have a doctor come over in minutes. Please leave," she adds, moving her gaze to the others.

Justice nods and puts a hand on Gumshoe's shoulder. "We'll explain you on the way out. Mr. Wright is telling Mr. Edgeworth everything as we speak," he says, and nods at Blackquill before leading Gumshoe out of the door. He wants to give him and Athena a couple of minutes alone, Blackquill realizes, and smiles faintly.

Such a perceptive young man.

Once they're alone, Athena reaches down to squeeze Blackquill's hand. "Get well soon, okay? Once thins thing with the Phantom is over with, I'll be dragging you all over Europe. Don't you pretend you forgot about it," she adds with a grin.

Blackquill sighs. "No, I won't. But I hoped you had," he says. Athena sobers up, but he can tell it's not because of his comment even before she speaks.

"We could go now, you know. If you want," she says, but Blackquill shakes his head.

"Not until the Phantom has a name. Not until he'll tell the police all he knows. Then I'll let you drag me to whatever European country you wish. But not before."

Athena nods in silence and looks away. "I see."

With a sigh, Blackquill turns to glance out of the window. "I know this is taking a lot out of you. I have no intention to force you; if you wish to stop these sessions, by all means do so. I won't put more strain on you. But I'll keep going. I promised him I'd do so, and I am a man of my word. I keep my promises. The Phantom will have a name to call his own before his time on Earth is at its end. Even if no one in the world will bother to use it, he _will_ have it. Think of it as the last wish of a dead man walking. Besides, the Interpol could do great many things with the information he holds. He wasn't wrong on that: it would allow them to cast light on many, many dark deeds."

Athena immediately shakes her head. "No, it's fine. I won't quit. What I'm worried about is the toll this is taking on _you_."

Well, Blackquill supposes he should have seen that coming. That the Phantom's words on their last session unsettled him was plain as day, and he still can't get over the fact he fell for such an obvious bait. But he had felt so furious – at the Phantom for everything he did, at himself for falling for his act for so long, furious with the world for no apparent good reason – that he _snapped_.

But he won't let it happen again. He cannot let it happen again.

"I'll be fine. It will not happen again. None of this will take any, as you put it, _toll_ on me. It was a moment of anger, nothing more," he adds.

Athena gives him a small, somewhat sad smile before letting go of his hand. "You're lying," she says quietly, and Blackquill finds himself at a loss of words. He entirely forgot about her gift for a moment, and he had thought... he had thought that was the truth. It has to be. Isn't it...?

Blackquill's hand reaches up to rest on his chest, as if it could do anything to silence whatever secret his own heart is spelling out for Athena – or reach whatever secret it's keeping from _him_. "I..."

The sound of the door opening cuts him off, and he feels like he's actually been spared: he has no idea what he'd even say. They both turn to see the nurse peering in again.

"Visiting time is over," she says, and Athena nods at her.

"I'm going," she says, and smiles down at him again – one of her usual, bright smiles. "Get better soon, okay? I'll be back tomorrow," she says.

Blackquill has to swallow before even trying to smile, but he's rather sure the result doesn't look like a smile at all. When Athena turns to leave he closes his eyes, and tries to ignore the weight on his chest.

* * *

She finds both Mr. Wright and Apollo downstairs, grabbing some snacks from a vending machine and talking.

"... of course, as soon as they checked it was clear no officer with that name has ever taken service in the prison. A shame they didn't check first – they even complimented him for stopping the Phantom and then let him go home. Now they're trying to track him down, but it's unlikely they'll find him. He's had all the time he needed to slip off the radar. With him free, the Phantom is still in danger. They put surveillance on the infirmary and tightened the security at the prison's entrance, though, so I hope... oh, Athena! Would you like something? I have some extra change. My treat," Mr. Wright says as soon as he spots her approaching.

She shakes her head. "No, thanks. So... you know who tried to kill the Phantom and Simon?"

Mr. Wright nods. "Yes. He's an assassin for hire called Shelly the Killer; I met him once, and it was... not fun. He's extremely good at what he does, and few of the men he was set to assassinate escaped with their lives. The Phantom was lucky Blackquill got there on time."

Apollo snorts a little at the statement. "It's lucky that _Blackquill_ wasn't killed as well. Losing his life to save that monster of all people... I can't even think about it," he says, his voice low and filled with loathing. Athena cannot blame him: he lost his best friend to the Phantom... as she lost her mother.

The twinge of pain in her chest convinces her not to pursue that line of thought. "So the security is tight now?"

"Tight as it can be."

She bites her lower lip. "I see. May I ask... for one thing? Two, actually."

"Of course. What is it?"

"Could you ask Mr. Edgeworth for a permission? To get in the prison. I'd like to talk to the Phantom alone."

Mr. Wright blinks. "What, now? Why? Can't you go some other time?" he asks, and Athena shakes his head.

"This is the best time. He was through a lot in a short time. He's been almost strangled, nearly electrocuted and sedated. By the time he wakes up his mind is bound to be less sharp, and more vulnerable. He built up defenses the Mood Matrix has trouble getting past even when he's trying to get rid of them; there may not be another occasion to talk to him while those walls are down... or at least easier to get through."

"I see," Mr. Wright says, reaching up to rub his chin. "I guess it can be done. I'll call Edgeworth right away. What's the other thing?"

Athena draws in a deep breath before replying. "I need your magatama."

Mr. Wright's eyebrows go up almost all the way to the hairline. "The magatama?" he asks, clearly surprised. "But... why?"

"To have one more instrument to use," Athena explains. "I can pick up lies by listening to the discord in one's heart, but with a tough case like the Phantom a little extra help would be nice even when he's at his most vulnerable. Besides," she adds, unable to keep a grin from spreading through her face, "I've been wanting to try it out for a while."

"I see," Mr. Wright says, and pulls the magatama out of his pocket and handing it to her. "But I'm not entirely sure even this will help. The Phantom could cheat even the magatama, remember?"

She does, and how: back while they were investigating in the Space Center, the magatama did pick up the Phantom's lies... but then the answers were even more lies, for justice and Simon's well-being were never truly what the Phantom was concerned about. And yet Mr. Wright said the Psyche-Locks had shattered like every other time, as if he had just gotten the _truth_ out of him. For a while they just assumed he was able to somehow cheat the magatama; maybe, she had suggested herself, he was so well in Fulbright's character that the magatama was tricked because that was exactly what _Fulbright_ would have done and said and thought.

But now she isn't so sure. Now she's starting to wonder if he truly did cheat the magatama back then, or if the explanation is... something different. Maybe he had not pretended after all, and they had just looked at the matter from the wrong angle.

And she wants to find out if that's the case.

"Yes, I know. That's exactly why I want to use it now that his mind is not as sharp as usual," she says, looking down at the magatama in her palm. She can see in the corner of her eye Apollo stiffening a little and she knows his bracelet has just reacted. Yet he says nothing about it, and she inwardly thanks him for his trust, taking a mental note to explain him her theory later if it proves to be true. "Thank you, Mr. Wright."

"Don't mention it. Do you want me or Apollo to come with you?"

She shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I'll be fine on my own. I know I will," she adds, and she really means it. It's somewhat funny how everyone is so all over her and asking if she can handle it while she can tell so clearly that the one who truly has issues at the moment is Simon. It's heart-warming to see how much support she has, and she's truly grateful for it... but Simon needs support far more than she does now, and she wants to provide him just that more than anything.

* * *

What _truly_ brings the Phantom back to consciousness is the sound of a door opening and then closing.

He's been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, barely aware of hushed voices somewhere in the distance. Once he has felt someone lifting his arm and the sting of a needle, but he lacked the strength to even open his eyes, let alone speak. He's too tired, his mind too confused, and he aches everywhere. He can tell he's alive and is being looked after, but nothing more. He has no idea what happened after he blacked out, whether Blackquill is still alive or not and if they know what happened, and while he wants to open his eyes and ask he can't focus enough to do either. So for a while he just lies still, listening to nothing in the silent room.

Until, of course, the door opens and closes. There is a moment of silence, and then a few, hesitant steps. Someone is in there, he thinks, and that clears his mind some; enough to think he has better make sure it's not another assassin, if anything. So he forces himself to open his eyes in a supreme effort of will and puts the face hovering above him into focus, hoping it's not going to be the assassin again. And, in fact, it's not.

It's Athena Cykes.

The Phantom has to admit that, in a way, he'd have preferred the assassin. But then again, it could be worse. It could be Aura Blackquill. Why, now that's a piece of work he'd rather not face.

"Miss Cykes," he tries to say, only to regret it a moment later: nothing but a rasping noise leaves him, and the mere attempt at speaking seems to set his throat on fire, as though he has shards of glass in it. He hisses in pain and instinctively reaches up to press a hand on the mark on his neck, where the assassin wrapped the wire, but his hands is immediately stopped by the handcuffs. Both of his hands are shackled to the bed, he notices. How charming. He'd be flattered by the fact they think him capable of doing _anything_ in his current state if only the whole thing wasn't so annoying.

"The assassin sure did a number on you," Cykes says from above him. "You're lucky Simon got there on time."

The Phantom rests his head back down and turns his gaze to her. "Is he...?" he asks, wincing at the pain forming even simple words causes him. He wonders just how close the wire got to cutting clean through his windpipe; it certainly feels like it nearly got there.

"He's fine. He only needs rest. The assassin got away, but the infirmary is guarded. He can't possibly get in."

Good, the Phantom thinks. He nods at her and closes his eyes, hoping that she'll take the hint and leave.

She doesn't, or ignores it entirely.

"Why did you attack him?"

The Phantom forces his eyes open to look up at her again. "Are you... ungh... even serious? He was... trying to kill me," he rasps, and for a moment all he can think is that he'd kill for a glass of water.

Cykes frowns, and pulls something out of her pocket – an oddly shaped green stone that seems to be glowing. She holds it in front of his face for some reason he can't even begin to imagine and shakes her head. "No, I don't mean that. While he was attacking Simon. You could have ran to get help instead of getting involved. Why didn't you? Why did you stay behind to stop the assassin?"

He frowns up at her, quickly growing annoyed of whatever game she thinks she's playing. "Are you... complaining that I... ugh..." he pauses and swallows, which helps his throat very little. "Why aren't you just... happy that your precious... friend is fine? Or is this some... kind of test? Is it another session? Because I can... I can think of better moments-"

"Just tell me why," Cykes presses on, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Tell me why and I'll leave."

God, she _is_ persistent. The Phantom rests his head back down and stares up at the ceiling. "Instinct, plain and simple. Good old-fashioned instinct. That's all," he says, then turns his head just a little to look at her... and the sight is somewhat worrying. She's staring at him with wide eyes, the hand where she'd holding that green... thing shaking slightly. She looks so surprised that he wonders, for a moment, if he's growing horns.

"What is it?" he rasps, taken aback.

Slowly, Cykes lowers her hand. "They're _black_," she says, wonder now mixing to the surprise in her voice.

"Black? What...?" the Phantom asks, turning to glance behind him to see if she's referring to anything behind him. His gaze only meets the curtain separating his bed from the next one, which he assumes is empty. It's blinding white; no black in sight. So what's her issue? Is she out of her mind? "Cykes?"

She blinks and looks down at him as though she forgot he's even there. "I... they... nothing," she finally says, and seems to be about to place the odd stone in her pocket... then she stops, and grips it tight. She frowns, and for a moment she seems conflicted over something. Her shoulders tense up, and her gaze darkens.

"You killed my mother."

The Phantoms raises an eyebrow. "Yes. I believe we've... established that," he says, his throat still hurting. "Your... point?"

For a moment she says nothing, and her hand clenches harder on the stone. Her eyes are narrowed, and for a moment – only for a moment – the Phantom feels a pang of something somewhere between worry and fear. His hands are tied town, he's helpless and, if her expression is of any indication, none of the thoughts crossing her mind right now is pleasant.

And then it's gone. The scowl melts into something else, something sadder, and the stone disappears in her pocket. "I can't," she says quietly, more to herself than to him. "I can't do it."

"Can't do... what?"

Instead of replying, she shakes her head as though to chase away a thought, or a mental image. When she looks back at him she looks serious, but not too different from usual. "You lied."

He gives her a grin. "That's what... spies do. I'm afraid you'll have to be more... ugh... specific."

"Just now," she replies, her hand touching the stone through her pocket once again. "You lied. You may not realize it – you probably don't – but you still did." She drops her hand, her gaze turning thoughtful. "Are you even capable of telling truth from lies anymore?"

The Phantom has no clue what in the world she may be thinking about, but he truly doesn't like the direction the conversation is taking. He hasn't lied, he thinks – he fought the assassin after he took down Blackquill out of instinct, that was all. The man had tried to kill him, and he had wanted to take him down. He didn't stop to think and acted out on instinct. That was _it_. It is no lie. It... it's the only explanation. Yes. The only.

"I don't understand what you even-" the Phantom starts, but he's cut off by a sudden fit of coughing. It's pure agony, like molten fire being poured down his throat. He lets his head fall back down on the pillow and licks his lips. "Water," he rasps.

"I'll tell a nurse to get you some," he hears Cykes saying stiffly, then there are only footsteps and the sound of a door opening and then closing. Then there is silence, only broken by his harsh breathing and the sound of liquid dripping in the IV that goes into his arm.

* * *

"Black Psyche Locks, you say?" Mr. Wright says. He's sitting at his desk, hands folded under his chin and a thoughtful expression on his face. From across the desk, Athena nods.

"Yes. Five of them, and all black. Like... well, like the ones you said you've seen around me," she says, and finds herself shuddering as she recalls the five black locks all over the Phantom, keeping the truth locked inside. Just looking at them had been enough to make her feel somewhat scared, like the world had lost all of its light. They seemed to radiate something – coldness and despair and something else, like... like... she couldn't tell. The Phantom was so difficult to read even for her, and she simply couldn't tell.

And the Phantom likely couldn't, either. Mr. Wright had told her everything about such locks. He had told her that the black Psyche Locks protect secrets from the deepest place in a person's heart, and that they could mean only two things – that it's something the person wants to keep hidden at all costs, come what may, or that it's something not even they are aware of. Much like her own memories of the day her mother had died, she thinks, blocked away by the trauma. Her mind had refused to acknowledge what had happened, locked it away, and thus the black Psyche Locks had come to be. That was how it had worked for her, and that may be how it works for the Phantom: he may be in such desperate denial over something that even he cannot even realize he's lying. She wanted to break them for a moment, she truly did. She wanted to rip them off and know the truth, regardless the consequences... even though she knows just how dire they can be.

_Ripping them off by force could cause permanent damage to a person's soul._

The thought of damaging someone's soul is horrible, and yet for a moment she didn't even care. For a moment she wanted to go through with it regardless, because she wanted to know... and, most terrifying of all, because she had wanted to damage him like he had damaged _her_.

_He deserves it._

_Don't._

_He killed my mother. Let Simon take the fall. Killed Detective Fulbright. Killed Clay. Tried to frame me._

_Permanent damage to a person's soul._

_He has no soul._

_Athena, no. This is not right. This is not _you_._

That last thought cleared her mind, and she was horrified to realize what she had even considered. It wasn't right, and she couldn't do it – not even to him. So she had put the magatama back in her pocket and promised herself she'd find out the truth some other way. If Mr. Wright had broken _her_ Psyche-Locks without damaging her soul, then she'd try to do the same for the Phantom... especially since now she thinks she has an idea of what the true reason behind the Phantom's behavior may be, and if she's right then it's all linked – the fact he stayed behind to get the assassin off Simon, and the fact he was so desperate to get Simon to admit he _hated_ him. She's not sure, but... she thinks she has a pretty clear idea now.

"Then it must be a secret he's truly desperate to keep," Mr. Wright says, interrupting her musings. "Either that, or he doesn't know it himself."

"I think it's the latter. I think he's... blocking out the truth," Athena says slowly. "He's willfully ignoring it, choosing not to know. Because he can't even admit the possibility to himself."

"What do you mean?"

Athena stays silent for a few moments to collect her thoughts before she speaks again. "During the last session the Phantom tried to get a reaction out of Simon. I'm sure he meant to goad him into... I'm not sure. Reacting, I guess. And when Simon gave him a shock, he laughed. He wanted him to admit that he hated him, that he'd like to kill him, that sort of thing. I had the Mood Matrix still on, and it picked something."

Wright frowns. "What did it pick up?"

Athena bites her lower lip before speaking. "It was very weak since his emotional spectrum is very limited, but... there was a fluctuation. It was like he was _happy_. It didn't really make sense, you know? He had just angered Simon enough to get a strong electric shock, he was asking him how much he wished he could kill him, and he was _happy. _It made no sense, unless-"

"He's so much of a monster that he'd love making one out of Blackquill before he dies. That's all," Apollo cuts in, causing her to recoil – she almost forgot he's there as well. He's standing on the back, arms folded on his chest, gaze darkened as always when they talk about the Phantom. Athena can't blame him: the wound of Clay's death is still fresh, and he has no reason _not_ to think the worst about anything regarding the maybe Athena would agree with his opinion just now if it wasn't for... something else.

"Well... that's not all. There was... something else."

"Such as...?" Mr. Wright nudges her gently. Athena draws in a deep breath before speaking.

"When Simon told him he wasn't worth his hatred, there was another fluctuation. The happiness vanished and there was a sudden peak of sadness. It dulled and got weaker a moment later, but it was _there_."

"He may have faked it, knowing you'd pick it up," Apollo suggests. "He can do that. You know he can. He did so in court, remember? When he went out of his way to prove he was not entirely emotionless. He could fake any emotion he wanted during the trial. He must have been _trained_ to do that – control any amount of emotion he's able to actually feel. He may be manipulating you."

"He could do so during the trial, yes," Athena concedes. "He's a master of control when he puts his mind to it, but I think..." she pauses, looking for the right word, then, "I think his control is _slipping_, and he's aware of that. He's trying to keep it up, but the trial dealt a huge blow to his psyche. He let his emotions get the better of him once already," she adds, thinking back of his breakdown at the witness stand. It had been terrifying, even more than the crack of the gunshot that had ended it, and for her it had been almost painful to witness. She had never seen before a man filled with such utter, gut-wrenching terror; she could hear his heart crying out even through his screams, beating so fast it had seemed close to bursting. For one insane moment as she heard the gunshot and saw him falling she had actually thought that was what just happened.

Unaware of her musings, Apollo frowns. "It happened once. It doesn't mean he'll be wearing his heart on his sleeve from now on."

She shakes her head. "No, of course not. But it was like... like opening Pandora's vase. Once the content is out, there is no sealing it back in."

With a small hum, Mr. Wright leans back against his seat. "What I wonder is why would he even try to seal his emotions back in. Aren't your sessions supposed to work on them to uncover his past? He should be all too glad to be able to let them out."

Athena smiles a little. "What people _want_ to do and what they actually _do_ are not always the same. On a rational level the Phantom must know that taking down those defenses will make our job easier. He's desperate to have his identity back, so the logical thing to do would be letting go of his training and stop holding back – but it takes him a terrible effort to do so. He wants us to uncover who he is, but at the same time... he doesn't. He tries to let his emotions show one moment and then tries to lock them away the next. He's far more confused than he's willing to admit. And he's scared. He doesn't know who he even is – how could he _not_ be?" she reasons aloud.

"Forgive me if I don't send him a sympathy card," Apollo mutters. Both Athena and Mr. Wright ignore him.

"I see. Well, you're the psychologist, so I'm sure you know what you're talking about," Mr. Wright says. "Let's say that his emotions during that... _exchange_ with Blackquill were genuine. Do you think they're linked to whatever reason why the Phantom stayed back and fought the assassin off Blackquill? The reason he's not willing to admit to even himself?"

Once again, Athena nods. "Yes. I think he wished for Simon to admit he hated him because he needs that. He wants Simon to hate him – and to do that, Simon needs to be alive."

Apollo blinks. "O... kay? No offense, but this makes no sense at all. Why would he _want_ someone's hatred?"

"Because it's better than indifference," Athena says, and she can't help but let some sadness show in her voice. If her theory is true, then the Phantom is even more pitiful than she could previously imagine. "Try to picture this – you're no one. No one at all. You have no name. Your own face was forgotten long ago, and it means nothing to you now. You have no past, no memories, no beliefs, no self. You can't even tell how much of your personality is truly _yours_ or how much is faked or belonged to someone else. And even the man you hurt the most in the world – the man whose mentor you killed, the man you let take the fall for your crime, the man whose trust you won and then betrayed – says he feels nothing but indifference for you, because you're not even worth his hatred. You're a complete nobody even to _him_. I... I think he cannot bear it. I think he needs to know he's important to someone, regardless what the associated emotion may be."

There is a moment of silence before Apollo speaks again. "If he helps, you can tell him_ I _hate him," he finally says, causing Athena to give a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

"Well, I, uh... don't think that's going to do, but thanks. For whatever reason, it's _Simon_ that matters," she adds, turning her gaze to the magatama on Mr. Wright's desk. While she hasn't been able to see if the Phantom could indeed cheat even the magatama, her theory on why the Phsyche Locks appeared and then broke back in the Space Center now seems more of a real possibility. It would explain so much of his behavior – why bring up that lighter at all? What would he care whether or not Solomon Starbuck was convicted? Why try to implicate _her_ of all people, someone who had been _there_ when he had killed her mother and sabotaged the HAT-1 launch? Why would he do all that, if not to bring the UR-1 incident back up? And why bring it back up, against his own interest, if not to incriminate something _other_ than Simon for it?

_Was his goal saving Simon from execution?_

A part of her can barely even accept the fact she's seriously considering that possibility; had she thought about it only the previous week, she knew she wouldn't have. But now... now it seems possible. Unsettling and twisted, but possible: the Phantom has no small amount of secrets when it comes to Simon.

And, most uncomfortable of all, she now knows that Simon has secrets of his own when it comes to the Phantom, and lies he'll tell himself over and over rather than facing the truth.

* * *

_A/N: I realize this one theory I come up with regarding the Phantom's intentions in the last two cases sounds kind of weird, but still. I tried to think of other ways to get any reason for what he did - involving in the case someone who was THERE seven years before for no apparent reason, at risk of bringing back up that one accident - and I could think of nothing that made sense. The game itself doesn't do much to explain WHY the Phantom would create fake evidence to implicate Athena of all people - so I figured I'd put my spin on it._  
_Same goes for the Psyche Locks issue: I just can't buy the Phantom being able to cheat even the magatama. So again, here's my spin on it. Hope I managed to explain it in a way that makes sense, at least._


	5. Nightmares

Having almost had to stand on it himself, the sight of the gallows makes Blackquill feels queasy. There is a thick glass wall between it and everyone who's there to see the execution, but it makes the sight of the hanging noose no easier to bear. He draws in a deep breath, then releases it and tries to force himself to stop gripping his seat's armrests. It will be over soon, he tells himself. Soon.

Death by hanging is a quick death when done right, he knows. The rope around your neck, a fall, neck bone snapping and then nothingness; he's told himself as much countless times as his own execution drew nearer and he felt like nothing he did could stop it. It is a merciful death; more than the Phantom truly deserves.

Blackquill tears his gaze away from the gallows and looks at the other people in the room, there to see the execution. He's sitting at the very back, so he can see all the few people who are there: there is Athena a few rows ahead, sitting next to Justice. Neither of them is speaking nor moving. His sister is there, too, sitting right on the front row. There is something disturbing in the way she hunches forward to look as closely as possible without standing, eager as a predator, crouching and waiting for the kill.

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright are there, too, sitting not too far away from each other, both of them silent. A few other people are in the room, likely some of Detective Fulbright's friends – not Gumshoe, he notes, but then again the man doesn't seem the kind of man who could stand attending to an execution – but none of them speaks. Everyone in the room is silent, so silent Blackquill could swear he hears his own heartbeat. He draws in a deep breath, then he turns back to the gallows.

And suddenly the Phantom is _there_, standing on the gallows with the noose around his neck, staring straight at him with absolutely no expression. Blackquill recoils, breath catching in the back of his throat. When was he brought inside? When was he made climb the gallows? He only turned away for a few moments, and... what happened to the procedures? Why is no one reacting, why is no one even moving or speaking? Why are they sitting there like wax statues? Why is there not a single guard on the gallows? Why isn't the Phantom cuffed? Why isn't he even wearing the hood? His face is supposed to be covered. He's not supposed to be able to look at them, and they're not supposed to see his face as he... as he...!

_What's going on here_?

Blackquill opens his mouth to speak out, to ask what in the world is happening, but before even one word can leave him the trapdoor beneath the Phantom's feet opens, and he falls – a fall cut short by the rope around his neck. For a moment Blackquill stills, unable to breathe or even think, but it's short-lived: only a moment later he can tell something else is wrong, horribly wrong.

The Phantom is still alive, shaking and convulsing as the noose slowly strangles him. His hands reach up to scratch at his throat, leaving bloody trails on the flesh but doing nothing to loosen the deadly grip, and his eyes bulge with panic, skin almost purple and features distorted with agony. The fall failed to break his neck, Blackquill realizes in sudden dread. He's being strangled to death before their eyes, they can see his face as it happens, they can see his agony and death throes...

… and no one is moving or saying anything. No one. They're sitting still, all of them just _watching_.

"Stop... stop this! You must stop the execution! This is not right!" Blackquill screams, not even knowing who he's trying to talk to since there are no guards anywhere around the gallows. But this must stop, it must – no one deserves to die like _this_, not even the Phantom. _"This is not right!"_

None of those sitting in the room pays him any heed: they keep still and simply stare at the Phantom, giving no sign of having even heard him. Only Athena moves, turning around to glance at him from over her shoulder, and the sight chills him to the bone: she's smiling faintly and has the same faraway look in her eyes she had the day he found her standing next to her mother's corpse. Her voice when she speaks is just as sweet as it was then, her words the same or almost.

"Don't worry, Simon. We can always take him apart to fix him."

With a cry of denial, Blackquill turns away from her. He runs up to the glass and starts pounding it with his fists, not even caring when the skin breaks. On the other side the Phantom is still convulsing, still desperately clawing at his own throat, blood starting to leak from his eyes like tears.

"Stop this! Someone stop this! You can't kill him like this! _Not like this_! Stop! STO-"

"It's alright, Prosecutor Blackquill," a voice that sounds both familiar and horribly alien at the same time reaches him just as he feels a weight on his shoulder – that of a hand covered by a white glove. Suddenly feeling horribly cold, Blackquill stops hitting the glass and slowly turns away from the dying man's convulsing form to find himself staring at a familiar face, and a familiar bright smile.

But it's his eyes that draw his attention. Even through the sunglasses Blackquill can see that Fulbright has no eyes: only the black, empty holes of a mask.

"_For justice_," the thing that looks like Fulbright says, his grip on Blackquill's shoulder tightening.

Mind reeling, Blackquill finds that his knees can no longer support him. He falls and tries to scream, but his tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of his mouth and he cannot make a sound. The ground opens up to swallow him,and the last thing he sees before everything goes dark is the Phantom, still hanging and convulsing in the throes of agony.

* * *

"NO!"

Simon Blackquill awakens to his own cry echoing in the darkness of his hospital room. For several moment he lays still, eyes wide open, breathing quickly as his eyes slowly get accustomed to darkness and his heartbeat finally slows down. By the time it does he can see the a vague outline of what surrounds him thanks to the moonlight making it through the window, and that's reassuring: now that he can tell where he is it's so much easier to think of his nightmare as nothing more than... well, a nightmare.

_The way he convulsed as he hang, the way he clawed at his throat, the blood leaking from his eyes and trailed down his contorted features like tears..._

Blackquill shakes his head, as though trying to physically chase away the memory. This is far from the first nightmare he's had; he had plenty while in prison, after all, rarely able to truly sleep a whole night without at least one. He's dreamed of the day his mentor died, of Athena's far-off look as she stood there covered with her blood, of his sister's grief, of the Phantom – a shadow looming over him and everything he ever loved, never seen but still there – and of the gallows.

But whenever he dreamed of the gallows it would be _him_ hanging, him and no on else. And in his dreams it would be over quickly, his neck snapping as soon as the trapdoor opened. He would awaken with that snapping noise still ringing in his ears, his heart beating wildly somewhere in his throat. But this time... this time the Phantom has taken his place. All things considered, he thinks, it's only fitting... but he cannot stop thinking how horribly wrong the execution in his dream went and how horrified he felt when watching, how desperate to stop it. And why not? There is no honor in making a defeated enemy suffer before death. Not even the Phantom would deserve such a dreadful agony.

Blackquill closes his eyes, and thinks back of the terror on the Phantom's face while the assassin was strangling him. His eyes bulged, he recalls, and he was clawing at his throat to dislodge the wire; the memory is probably where his nightmare came from, he decides. His subconscious simply added some gruesome details, and replaced the assassin with the gallows – but that's it. His reaction didn't change, either: he was ready to try stopping the execution in his dream as he was ready to rush inside the cell to fend an assassin off him. Because it was the right thing to do – that was why he had done it.

But the Phantom – why had _he_ stepped in for _him_?

_It's been... it's been real... prosecutor Blackquill. Now do me a favor and don't... don't die on me._

_I was serious when I said I... I want a name... to call my own... before I die_

"It was to help himself," Blackquill says aloud, his voice comfortingly firm to his own ears. "He wants to find out who he is, and he needs me to do so. Nothing more, nothing less."

_Ah_, a treacherous voice speaks in the back of his mind, _but that's not true is it. He doesn't need you for this. He needs Athena._

That much is true: the Phantom needs Athena far more than him to uncover his past and memories. His role in the sessions is not crucial, and certainly not so needed that the Phantom would risk his life to save him.

But then, _why_...?

"What do you want from me, Phantom?" Blackquill asks to nothing and no one, eyes fixed on the ceiling. There is no answer, obviously enough – what answer would you get from an empty room? – but there is another memory coming back to his mind, the last words the Phantom spoke to him before passing out.

_Please, don't... don't. I'd rather... don't call me..._

"Phantom," Blackquill mutters, the word alone leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "How else should I call you? You are no one. You have no name," he says. He lifts his head just enough to look out of the window, and his eyes meet the night sky – sparkling with stars as always.

_I will never give up on you, Prosecutor Blackquill!_

Blackquill can almost _hear_ Bobby Fulbright's voice saying just that, and clenches his teeth.

"But you'll have one," he almost growls. "I'll know who you are and how to call you, or _so help me_."

* * *

It's dark where he is now.

Not that the Phantom has any idea at all _where_ he is, exactly. He only knows it's dark, to the point he's starting to wonder if his eyes have ceased working, and empty. He doesn't know how long he's been walking, but he has yet to meet anything – an object, a wall, anything that indicates he's not simply lost in a void.

_I have no self_, a voice he's come to know as his own whispers somewhere in the back of his mind. _I am no one. I am nothing but an endless abyss._

The Phantom clenches his teeth and takes another step forward, then another, and another, arms held out to detect any obstacle that there may be. There must be something there, he thinks, some way out, any way out from wherever he is. Maybe, if he keeps walking-

His thoughts are cut off by a sudden clattering noise when his foot hits something. He looks down, and even though there is no light – no light at all – he can somehow see the object he just hit, laying on the darkness he assumes is the ground.

A mask.

It's not one of _his_ masks, so carefully crafted that no one can tell them apart from real faces. It's a rather primitive mask – made of plaster, he realizes when he picks it up to get a closer look. It's rough and unpolished, with features so exaggerated it looks like a caricature, with a grotesquely down-turned mouth. A Greek theater mask, a part of his mind supplies, a _tragedy_ mask.

The Phantom turns it over to look at the inside, wondering where did that information even come from. Then he turns it back, and-

And it's not a Greek mask anymore.

"_Ah!"_

The surprised gasp that leaves him sounds loud as a cry in the void he's trapped into, but he barely notices as his fingers open and the mask falls on the floor, where it shatters in several pieces without a noise. For a few long moments the Phantom cannot even think, eyes wide and fixed on what's left of a Noh mask – _Metis Cykes' _Noh mask, the one he put on when he murdered her. It is another noise that snaps him from it.

Steps.

The Phantom turns, heart stuck somewhere in his throat, and finds himself facing yet another Greek mask – the comedy mask, its mouths curled up in a grotesquely exaggerated smile. It is approaching, and for a moment the Phantom thinks it's hovering in mid-air; it takes him a few moments to see a vague outline of the person who's wearing it, barely visible but _there_.

Then the form stops, and so does the mask, and a hand – still barely visible, as though wrapped in a veil of shadow – reaches up to take it off and let it fall on the ground, where it shatters without a sound.

And the Phantom knows him, he knows that face. He knows it because he's seen it, a long time ago. It's one of them – one of the kids he remembered about, one of those he'd joke and fool around with, one of those who laughed at his antics.

But he's not laughing now. Unlike the rest of his body his face is perfectly visible and he looks pale, corpse-white, with sunken in eyes; a rivulet of blood is coming out of the corner of his mouth, and he works his jaw a few times before he speaks, dark eyes fixed on the Phantom.

"Why?" he asks, his voice raspy and barely audible, so very different from the one he had in the memory the Phantom dug up. "Why did you... let it... happen?"

"Let it happen? Let what happen?" the Phantom speaks up, heart hammering in his chest and hands balling into fists. "What happened? Who am I? Answer to me!"

There is no answer, and something in the Phantom's mind snaps. The next moment he's on him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. A part of his mind notes that they're about the same height even though it should be impossible, for the other is a mere boy. "Who am I? Tell me! You know me! Who am I? _Tell me!_"

The boy looks back at him and, slowly, starts sneering. His face begins changing, _shifting_, until the Phantom is no longer looking at a boy's face. He's looking at Blackquill, an even paler version of him whose hair is matted with blood; stunned as he is, the Phantom doesn't release him nor he moves when _this_ Blackquill raises a blood-covered hand and presses two fingers on his forehead, right over the scar. They stare at each other for a few moments, then the Phantom finds it in himself to speak again.

"Who am I?"

Blackquill's lips curl into a smirk. "No one," he says. Then there is a deafening bang, and a splitting pain in his skull. The Phantom screams and falls back – and falls and falls and falls.

One last thing echoes in his head before nothingness takes over, and it's Blackquill's voice, and the boy's, and that of his own younger self. It belongs to all and yet none of them.

_Why did you let me die?_

* * *

He screams and screams and _screams_.

His throat is on fire, but it's nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – compared to the horrible, splitting pain in his skull. He tries to reach up for his head, but he cannot move his hands and he doesn't know what's going on, doesn't realize if he's dreaming or awake or somewhere in-between. All he knows is that he's in horrible pain and terrified, and so he screams and screams, pulling against the handcuff as he thrashes about.

There is a sudden, blinding light and several people are rushing in. Several hands seize him and pin him down on the mattress, and he cannot open his eyes, the glare of light making the pain in his head even more unbearable. He keeps screaming, that's all he can do – thrash and scream, wordless cries turning into words.

"No! NO! Let go of me! _Let me go! _Who am I? WHAT AM I? Tell me! TELL ME!"

But they're not going to let him go, they're not going to let him up. Several hands keep him still, and then there is a prickling in his arm and he knows they'll make him fall asleep again, he knows he's lost the battle.

"Keep him still until it makes effect, or he may hurt himself," someone says above him, and the scream that was about to leave the Phantom's mouth turns into something else that may be a laugh or a wracking sob.

"No, no, no, no, _no_...!"

_Don't make me go back there please don't just tell me my name I want to know my name tell me who I am and then kill me_ _just tell me tell me TELL ME!_

The Phantom makes one last desperate attempt at pulling his hands free, but it's too late: his consciousness is slipping away once again, the pain in his head dulling, and the light seems to be fading. He opens his eyes just enough to see several figures standing above him, but he cannot see their faces; everything is swirling around him, bathed in unbearable light.

_Blackquill_, he tries to call out, but his tongue feels heavy as stone and he cannot speak, cannot think. He closes his eyes and falls into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

"What does it _mean_, he 'lost it'?"

The bailiff shrugs. "At least that's what they said. He woke up screaming tonight, and hasn't been right since he woke up this morning. He only spoke to say he wants another session today. He says it's important. They told me to ask you to go as soon as the trial is over."

Athena frowns, biting her lower lip. "Well, the trial is over," she says slowly, but she's still hesitant. She can handle a session on her own – she's sure she can – but she's also sure Simon will raise hell should he find out she went without him, considering that he has a mile-wide protective streak when it comes to her.

On the other hand, though, Simon is in no condition to attend to a session even if he knew... and if the Phantom called for her with such urgency it may be because he remembered something important. If she waits and whatever the Phantom remembered slips away from his mind once more, then they may lose an important chance... and she can't allow it. She won't allow it.

Simon will have to see things her way, she decides. Either that or pout in silence.

"Fine. I'm coming. Just give me a minute," she says, pulling out her cellphone to tell Apollo and Mr. Wright not to wait for her to have their celebration noodles. And they're _good_ noodles she definitely deserves after a long hard trial, she thinks as she dials, so the Phantom had better have remembered something truly important.

* * *

She can tell something is very wrong since the moment she steps inside the room.

First of all, the Phantom is chained even more heavily than usual. Not only he's shackled to the table, but there is a chain across his torso that binds him to his seat's backrest; a quick look tells her that his ankles are shackled as well, secured to the seat's legs with a set of handcuffs each. It's like they're expecting him to flip and are taking extra cautions.

And then there is the fact he's keeping his face buried in his hands, elbows on the table and shoulders slumped. He doesn't move, doesn't lift his gaze or remove his hands from his face when she walks in.

"Miss Cykes," he greets her as she approaches, his voice raspy. Sitting down across the table, Athena can clearly see the bruise the assassin's wire left on his neck. "So you did come, after all. I appreciate it."

Like I'd want your appreciation, Athena thinks as her gaze falls on the scar on the back of his right hand. But she has no time to say anything, for the Phantom speaks again.

"How's Blackquill?"

"Fine. Still at the hospital, just to be safe. He'll be out in a few days," she says stiffly before changing subject. "They told me you had a breakdown."

"I suppose I did."

"Was it about something you remembered?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," the Phantom replies. "I suppose the most correct term would be 'nightmare'. Yes. It was a nightmare, no doubt about it. But... it meant something. I must mean something. Please, let it mean something – _please_..." his voice fades, and he has to breathe in and out several times before regaining some measure of control. Still, when he speaks again she can hear the faintest tremor in his voice. "I don't even know whether or not I truly hope any of it was true."

Athena sets her jaw. "Only one way to find out – confront it. Head on. With your own, true face," she adds, knowing that her words are bound to have an effect on him... one way or another.

The Phantom's frame stiffens, and the hands covering his face clench, nails digging in the skin of his forehead. "My own, true face," he repeats bitterly. "I have that now, if anything. But it still tells me nothing. _Nothing_."

"Then maybe the Mood Matrix will do the telling instead. That's why I'm here, isn't it? It's why you called for me here. So tell me what happened," she says, reaching up to touch Widget. The Phantom stays still for a moment, then he pulls his hands away from his face just as Athena is setting up the Mood Matrix. His skin is pale as wax, eyes reddened and sunken in, dark shadows beneath them. He smirks when Athena recoils.

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" he rasps.

Refusing to admit the true reason why she recoiled in the first place – _his eyes look like Simon's_ – Athena just nods. "Just tell me about your nightmare."

He does, and it's clear from the start that this session is far more promising than the previous one. His nightmare was disturbing, sure enough, and from the very start the Mood Matrix picks up fear – so intense that it reminds her of the moment he broke down on the witness stand. And then...

"Here!"

The Phantom trails off and looks back at her. "What is it?"

"When you picked up the mask," she explains, pointing at the contrasting emotion. "See? You felt happy."

"I'm quite sure I didn't," the Phantom says flatly, causing Athena to roll her eyes.

"You _did_. You just didn't realize it – we've been there already, haven't we?" she says, mildly annoyed. Will he just stop questioning the Mood Matrix at every turn, especially while _he_ asked her to use it on him?

He sighs. "Very well. So I was happy to see a Greek mask. Makes sense," he mutters sarcastically.

"I'm sure we can dig up something. But one thing at time – tell me what happened next."

What comes next is even more disturbing, and Athena isn't too surprised by the emotions they pick up next.

"Sadness," she says, her eyes fixed on the screen. "You felt sadness when the... the kid took off his mask. And fear when he turned into Simon and reached for your head," she says. "Then you woke up, right?"

"Right," the Phantom says, but the discord is there now, clear as day. She frowns and looks up at him.

"You're not as good as you used to be. I can pick up the discord. You're lying."

The Phantom stares at her for a few moments, but in the end he doesn't bother to deny. "Very well. Before I woke up I heard a voice. I'm not certain _whose_ voice. I can't remember. But it said..." he pauses and swallows. "Why did... why did you let me... why... no, no, _no_!"

Athena winces when the Phantom's voice breaks and he buries his face in his hands again, his shoulders shaking. He's muttering something under his breath, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I didn't mean to _I didn't mean to..._!"

Didn't mean to? Didn't mean to do... what? "What are you-" she starts, only to trail off when the Phantom lets out a blood-curling scream and strains against his bonds, shaking the whole table in the attempt of getting up. The Mood Matrix seems to go crazy as it picks up sudden peaks of fear and anger and grief.

"No! Make it stop! _Make it stop_!"

The door slams open, and the next moment several officers are inside. They're well-trained and efficient: two of them keep the Phantom still, a third one pins his right arm down on the table and a fourth one pulls out a syringe, pushing the needle in the Phantom's arm. It all takes place in a handful of seconds, and the Phantom's efforts to free himself grow weaker almost right away, his screams ceasing. When they let him go he slumps down on the table, clearly on the verge of passing out.

"Are you alright, Miss Cykes?" one of the officers is asking, but Athena barely acknowledges him: all her attention is for the Phantom. She stares as he struggles to keep his eyes open, as he tries and fails to lift his head. Then his dimming gaze meets hers, and holds.

"It was an accident. I didn't mean to," he says, his voice oddly calm, before closing his eyes and passing out.

* * *

"... and that was about it. I mean, it's not like we could continue the session. They said he wouldn't awaken for several hours. I told them to call me when he woke up, and they did. He's... stabler now, but in no condition to resume the session."

Blackquill nods as Athena finishes speaking, a frown creasing his brow. "You were not supposed to be alone with him," he says, causing her to shrug.

"Look, he was chained down. Way more than you ever were. And the guys came in with sedative as soon as he began screaming, so I was safe all the way through."

He's still not pleased by the news she had a session with the Phantom on her own – an irrational thing since he knows she can handle herself just fine, but he can't quite help it – but he doesn't truly have any argument to retort to that. In the end Blackquill just nods and lets the matter slide.

"Hmph. I see," he says, letting his gaze wander out of the window. "And he remembers nothing?"

"Not according to the officer I spoke to. He said the Phantom doesn't remember even breaking down. He doesn't remember what he said, or why."

"What _exactly_ did he say again?"

"That 'it was an accident', and he 'didn't mean to'. It must be related to the boy he saw in his dream, don't you think? One of his... well, we assume they were friends... he says he looked pale and hurt, with blood coming out of his mouth. Well, before he turned into _you_. Maybe this accident he spoke of...?"

"Killed him? It may be," Blackquill finishes. How ironic, he thinks, that he seems to inhabit the Phantom's nightmares the same way the Phantom inhabited his for seven years. The way he _still_ inhabits them.

Trying to chase away from his mind the memories of that night's nightmare, Blackquill just looks back at Athena—  
_Don't worry, Simon. We can always take him apart to fix him._  
—and speaks again.

"A pity he was unable to go ahead. He may have had a major breakthrough within his grasp, but now we seem to be back to square one. He has a tenuous grasp on his own memories, and being sedated certainly didn't help. They should have just restrained him."

"Simon, you didn't _see_ him," Athena protests with a shake of her head. "He was... he _needed_ to be sedated. He would have hurt himself if he wasn't. He was so terrified, almost in pain. He had lost any control he had. Keeping him like that would have been inhuman."

"A fitting treatment for someone who's barely human himself," Blackquill says bitterly. Part of him truly thinks what he's saying, though another part of him... doesn't.

Athena bites her lower lip. "Simon..." she starts, but she falls quiet when Blackquill waves his hand.

"Never mind that. Which words did exactly trigger his breakdown?"

"He began saying something like 'why did you let me...?' before he lost it. It was something he heard in his dream. 'Why did you let me', and then probably something else."

_Why did you let me die,_ Blackquill's imagination immediately supplies. It would fit with all he's heard so far.

"Anyway, that's what triggered his breakdown," Athena is adding. "Maybe, if we try telling him what he was saying he'll be reminded of whatever... whatever that was about. Or he'll lose it again. We can't really know."

Blackquill chuckles. "I'm not sure which outcome I'd appreciate the most," he mutters, finally pushing away the dish he's been staring at. He got used to rather shabby food in prison, but hospital food was on a different level and made his stomach churn. "I'll be out of here in a few days. I should hope that by then he'll be able to go through another session," he adds. "And even if that memory in particular triggers another violent reaction, we'll still have something to work on. You mentioned something about a mask. A Greek mask."

"Oh, that! Yes, there was one. It turned into... into my mother's Noh mask in his dream. You know, the one he wore when he..." her voice fades for a moment, but then she looks up again and keeps going as though the memory of the day her mother died was never there. She's strong, Blackquill finds himself thinking, and her mother would be proud of her. "Anyway," Athena goes on, unaware of his musings, "when he picked it up, before it _changed_, there was a peak of happiness. So maybe that kind of mask meant something to him. He seemed to have no idea, but I know for a fact that the feeling was there. So it must be just buried deep within. Maybe we could get a memory out of it – one that wouldn't make him lose his mind again. It could do for a softer start of the next session," she adds.

That is a good point, Blackquill has to admit. As much as a part of him wants to try pushing the Phantom further, to finally find something noteworthy about him and his past – because he hates to admit it, but the Phantom was right when he said he wishes to find out _who_ that is was just as much as the Phantom himself – he knows they must not overdo it. The Phantom's state of mind is unstable to say the least, and making him lapse into yet another fit won't get them any closer to the truth.

"I suppose it may be a start," he concedes. "We'll see how he reacts when we first bring up the part of the nightmare that triggered his breakdown. If we see any sign he may have another one, we'll talk about the mask and whatever it may remind him of," he says. The irony – what is it with the Phantom and _masks_? – doesn't escape him, but somehow he doesn't find it amusing at all.

"And, Simon...?"

Blackquill looks back up to Athena, and he can tell she's suddenly nervous. Her expression is a dead giveaway, and Widget... well, it only makes it easier to see. "What is it?"

"It's about the Phantom. When he took on the assassin. He said it was-"

"Instinct," Blackquill says drily. "Yes, I know. I asked him myself. I suppose that in such a situation-"

"He lied."

That's something Blackquill didn't think he expected to hear before – but just as the words leave Athena's lips he can tell that a part of him did, in fact, expect her to say just that.

_Expect it, or hope for it?_

"I know," Blackquill finds himself saying, realizing the truth of it only now that he speaks it out knew, but had chosen not to see... because knowing that would bring several possible answers to the question he's asked himself – w_hat do you want from me, Phantom? – _and none of them feels _right_.

"He has no one else to turn to," Athena's voice reaches him as though from a mile away. "You're all he's got. He cannot even admit it to himself, but this is how things _are_. I know this is... this is _odd_, but-"

"No, it's not," Blackquill cuts her off, looking out of the window and to the blue sky outside. Bobby Fulbright's voice – _I will never give up on you!_ – echoes somewhere in the back of his head. "Twisted, perhaps, much like myself. But not so odd. In these seven years I learned just how desperate a man – _any_ man – can be for someone's support when there is nothing else to turn to. Or just to know that there is anyone in the world who'd at least..." he pauses, unsure of the term he should use, and in the end he only shrugs. "It seems the tables have turned between us. But he deserves no support. No understanding. Nothing. The fact he may be yearning for some kind of... of _recognition_ from my part doesn't make him deserving of any."

Athena nods. "Yes, I know. It's just..."

"You should be the _very_ last person to pity him," he says flatly. That seems to anger her, and she scowls.

"Do you think I don't know that? He killed my mother, and... and he let you take the fall. Then he tried frame me for Clay's murder and then my mother's, and he feels nothing for any of it. There are moments I hate him so much I'm scared of what I could _do_. But then... he's..." she pauses and makes a vague gesture with her hand, as though it could help her explain exactly what she thinks. "It's all so _sad_. He's been empty for so long. That kind of life is no life at all. And now that he's trying to get any of his own self back, he's hurting. He's desperate to make it and he's trying with all he has, but every step of the way gets harder and makes him suffer more. When he screamed... his voice was nothing compared to his heart's cries. He was in agony."

Blackquill snorts softly and turns away. "You shouldn't spare him a thought. You're a too gentle soul."

"Says the one who was ready to die to protect me," Athena says softly, causing him to turn back to her.

"I was bound to protect you by honor. And I reserve such dedication to those who deserve it. The Phantom, you must agree, does not."

"No, he doesn't. But-"

"And to make matters worse," Blackquill cuts her off, anger boiling in his chest at the mere thought, "he tried to frame _you_ of all people for Clay Terran's murder. He knew why I was willing to die bearing the guilt of your mother's murder. He _had_ to know it was all to protect you. And yet he tried to frame you for murder," he says bitterly. "On top of all his other crimes, he wanted to make my sacrifice for nothing."

"Or he didn't want that sacrifice to happen to begin with."

Athena's words cause him to recoil – but not too much. Because there is a part of him, deep down, that was expecting _this_ as well. "What do you mean?"

"Haven't you wondered even for a moment why he even brought that lighter in the picture?" she asks, reaching up to toy with her earring. "Why incriminate _me_? He had no actual reason to. Mr. Starbuck was about to be found guilty, and you would have wasted your last day alive on a false lead. It would have worked for him. Then why implicate the daughter of the UR-1 incident's victim? That someone could bring up the old case as well wasn't a too far-fetched possibility. It was a risk to him, however small. And he took it for no apparent reason, because he would not benefit from my conviction. But if I were convicted for my mother's murder as well, then..." she pauses, and looks at him straight in the eyes. "Then _you_ would have walked free. I think... I think that was one of his goals. Stopping your execution."

_I will never give up on you, Prosecutor Blackquill!_

The memory of Bobby Fulbright's voice is almost too much to bear this time. Simon Blackquill shuts his eyes and leans back on the pillows, head spinning. "That's utter nonsense," he says, but his voice doesn't sound convincing to his own ears.

_You knew this as well, didn't you? Deep down, you knew._

"No, it's not. Listen, I-"

"_Silence."_

Athena trails off, mouth snapping shut as Blackquill suddenly snaps. He makes an effort to soften his voice, but he turns away from her. "I am very tired," he says, his voice tight. "We'll discuss this some other time, if you're so inclined. Now I'd like to rest."

"Simon..."

"Please, Athena."

There are a few moments of silence, then he can hear her sighing before she speaks again. "Alright. I'll visit again tomorrow. I'll... try to see if I can get your sister a permission to visit you as well," she says before leaving in silence, closing the door softly behind herself.

For a long time Blackquill just stays unmoving and silent, eyes shut, trying to think of nothing.


	6. Masks

The guard's steps outside his cell are growing louder as the man approaches, and the Phantom keeps perfectly still, his back to the bars and facing the wall. He knows the man is there to check on him, and he knows that unless he pretends to be sleeping he'll be sedated again – which would keep him from thinking, which is all he wants to do now that his mind had finally cleared some. So he doesn't move, keeps breathing deeply and regularly as you'd expect from a sleeping man, and waits.

Soon enough the steps retreat, growing fainted and then fading, and the Phantom allows himself to relax. He keeps his eyes shut, his forehead touching on the cold stone wall, and tries to _think_.

He doesn't attempt to recall the end of his dream, nor he tries to remember what was it he even told Cykes, or what he was thinking of when he even said... whatever he said. He's tried to remember, but not only it hasn't worked – it also came too close to make him break down again, and he isn't looking forward to it: not only it wouldn't be pleasant, but it would also result with being sedate again and thus back to square one. No, he will not try to go there again; not on his own, at least, not until Cykes tells him more of what happened during that session he can barely remember bits and pieces of.

So he focuses on the only thing in that dream that made him feel anything different from from fear and dread – the mask. With the mind's eye, the Phantom can still see it clearly: a Greek tragedy mask, shoddily made with plaster. What could there be in such an object to make him feel _happy_? Had such an object meant anything to him at any point? He cannot remember. He knows there is something, there must be something, lingering there just beyond his reach... but he cannot _remember_.

Holding back a frustrated sigh, the Phantom shuts his eyes tighter and tries to think of another perspective to look at it. A Greek mask, he reasons, would make sense withing Greek theater culture. He knows there are companies who put on stage plays this day; perhaps the mask came from one of such performances.

But that tells him little: the Phantom knows very little of Greek theater. But was it always like this? Did he know more, once?

A sudden pain in his head causes the Phantom's eyes to snap open, his breath itching. It's a dull, pulsing pain behind his eyes, and it immediately reminds him of last time he felt a such thing – back during the first session, when he first brought back a _true_ memory. Suddenly elated, the Phantom closes his eyes and tries to focus harder: he knows this will make the pain grow worse, as it did last time... but if he can dig up some of his memories, then it will be worth it.

Greek plays... what plays did he even hear of, anyway? A handful of names come to his mind, and while he cannot recall even what they are about he knows it's a start.

_Seven Against Thebes... Prometheus Bound... Ajax... Oedipus the King..._

"Ah!"

The gasp that leave the Phantom is not precisely loud, but still louder than he would have liked. He bites on his fist to keep himself from making more noise and keeps pushing on, ignoring the growing pain in his head. The pain doesn't matter, he doesn't _care_ – all he cares for is getting at least a memory back, any memory, and he can tell he's close.

_Oedipus... Oedipus..._

There is a sharp pain in his head, so strong that he has to bite harder on his first to keep himself from crying out. Be quiet, he tells himself, be quiet, don't scream or they'll hear and... and...

And that's it, that's all he can think before his thoughts become confused, someone's voice – one he's come to associate with his own younger self, and another much older than unknown.

"_I say that with those to you dearest, unknown to you, you are living in disgrace. You have no idea how bad things are."_

"_Do you really think you can just speak out, say things like this, and still remain unpunished?"_

"_Yes, I can, if the truth has any strength."_

"_It does, but not for you. Truth is not in you – for your ears, your mind, your eyes are blind!"_

"_You are a wretched fool to use harsh words which all men soon enough will use to curse you."_

The pain peaks suddenly, to the point he's irrational sure his skull will split in two, but he struggles not to make a noise, biting harder on his clenched fist. He feels something warm in his mouth and running down his fingers, then, but it doesn't matter – nothing matters because through the haze of pain there is something filling his mind, something that hadn't been there before, buried deep within.

A _memory_.

* * *

With the public gone and the actors off to get a well-deserved dinner, the old man is taking his time while cleaning tidying up the stage. It's oddly fascinating to watch him setting it up as it was at the very start of the play, ready to be used the next day; he seems to be doing everything with great intent, every single gesture – stacking the masks aside, moving a painted screen a little to the left, picking up some object an actor probably let fall, securing the curtain's ropes – having clearly repeated time and time again for many years.

Taken as he is looking, the boy is completely taken aback when the old man suddenly speaks.

"You should get down now. I know you're here."

"Whoa!"

Startled, the boy almost falls down the ceiling beam he's been perched on. Almost, because he as he's got quick reflexes: as he falls he hooks his legs on the beam and just hangs upside down, laughing. "How did you know I was here?" he asks, looking down. He can see, if upside down, the old man glancing up at him with an amused smile of his own.

"I'm old, but I'm not blind. And from time to time I actually bother to look up. You've been sneaking in to watch the plays for a while," he says, turning just a moment to put the broom he was holding back in place. "Are you not afraid? That's dangerous, you know."

The boy smirks. "Not for me," he says, and the next moment he's hoisting himself up on the beam again. He stands, and the next moment he leaps on another beam ahead and slightly beneath the one he was on. His hands grab the edge, and he uses the momentum to flip and come to sit on it. He looks back down at the old man with an even wider grin. "See? I'm good. I'm not afraid. I never fall."

The old man seems amused. "I see. Then perhaps you could come down for my peace of mind? Old people can't help but worry for youngsters, I suppose," he says, causing the boy to scoff.

"You think I'm dumb?" he asks, crossing his arms. "I'm not coming down so you can grab me and call the police."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I watch the plays without paying for a ticket. Duh."

The old man laughs, not at all put of by the disrespect. He has a pleasant laugh; it reminds the boy of a baker not too far from there who always gives him a loaf of bread when he passes by. If he's lucky, he gets one still warm from the oven. "That's hardly much of a crime, boy. We won't die of hunger because of one boy sneaking in to watch. Besides, I'm all too glad to see a child such as yourself so interested in the plays. Youth seems to value such things less and less these days. I suppose cinema holds more charms to the young."

"Cinemas are harder to sneak in," the boy informs him, then, "I'm still not coming down."

"What, do you believe I could give you chase at my age?" the man asks, clearly amused, and the boy has to admit he has a point: he's old and moves very slowly, while he's young, nimble and quick. After thinking about it, he decides to get closer. A few more leaps and he's sitting right on the curtain's beam, directly above the old man – and not too high up anymore, though still well out of reach.

"I'm not coming any closer," he warns.

"Fair enough, fair enough," the old man says, folding one of the screens used as background. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"I have no parents," the boy replies. There is no actual sadness in his words: he's just stating a fact. He barely even remembers what they looked like, so it's not like he feels he has much to mourn.

"... I see. The war with Cohdopia?"

"Yes. They died in some bombing or another. I was..." the boy pauses and frowns in thought, then, "four. I don't remember when my birthday exactly is, but I know the year," he adds.

The old man gives a mournful sigh. "That war was a true disaster for this country," he says somewhat mournfully. "And all of this over some cocoons. Unbelievable. I'll never figure out what our government was thinking when they denied the Cohdopian royal children the only cure to their sickness. Did they truly expect Cohdopia wouldn't react as it did to get it?"

The boy doesn't truly know much of what caused the war, nor he really cares. "I heard that the one leading the Cohdopian army won all wars he was in," he says, moving on to a more interesting subject. "At the orphanage they said he's the devil himself, that he loves war more than anything. They said he cannot die."

The old man shakes his head with a sigh. "Ah, but he can and will. We all must, someday – even High General Alba. I can only hope he will get his due, then, and pay for the innocent blood he shed," he says, his voice getting harsher, and the boy has just enough time to wonder if he lost someone in the war before he speaks again. "Then again, I suppose that from their point of view the Cohdopians were perfectly within their rights to act as they did. The royal children were dying, after all; the cure was denied to them, and they were desperate to take it by any means necessary before it was too late. War is such a dreadful thing, is it not? So many wars, so many people thinking that _their_ war is justified. The worst is when they truly believe so. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they say; doing the wrong thing because in that one moment it felt right. I suppose that is a line every man stands on at least once in life – even Alba. Some cross it, some do not. But crossing it once makes it easier to do again and again. And then how long is it before your _good _reasons give way to weak ones, convenient ones, until no reason is needed at all? Such a horribly slippery slope it is, and the way down may not be too long."

The boy lets out a hum, not really liking the depressing turn the conversation is taking. Truth to be told, the old man sounds like he's just talking to himself now. His gaze falls on the masks stacked neatly in one corner, the ones the actors wore during the play. They're made or either wood or plaster, as far as the boy can tell, and painted in vibrant colors. Some looks like women, some like men, some like old people, some like monsters.

"Why were the actors wearing those?" he asks, resting down on his stomach and letting his arms dangle on either side of the beam. "They don't do that in other plays."

The old man seems to have been snapped out of some thought, but he only need a few moments to recover and answer. "They do with Greek plays. It's a typical trait of ancient Greek theater."

"But why?"

The old man walks up to the masks and picks one up before replying. "You see, back then acting was reserved to men only. That meant they had to play women's roles as well, and the mask made it possible. It is no longer so," he adds, as though guessing the boy's next question. "Now men and women alike act in these plays. But the masks stay as a tradition, and the company you saw performing this past week sticks to them. Besides, some things never changed. One actor takes on more than just a role. The masks are what allow them to change character in mere moments."

The boy blinks, surprised. "But their voices sounded different!"

"Of course. A good actor must have full control of their voice in a theater, don't you think?"

The boy sits up on the beam, legs swinging below him. "I can make any voice I want, too!" he boasts, getting a chuckle out of the old man.

"Well then, why don't you show me?" the old man laughs, and gestures for the stack of masks. "Do come here. Let's act. I'm certain you watched enough plays enough times to know at least some lines by now."

This time the boy doesn't even hesitate before climbing off the beam, down the curtain and on stage – both because he always was a bit of a show-off and he can't resist, and because he knows he's too fast for the old man to catch him as long as he keeps some distance. The old man smiles and throws a mask at him, the one on top of the heap – a plain tragedy mask, made of plaster and with a leather buckle to keep it on. The boy catches it in mid-air and puts it on; it's a bit too large for him, but it can do. It is odd to think that now he only needs to change his voice and he'll be able to be anyone he wants – absolutely _anyone_.

"Now then. Who are you going to be?" the old man asks. He looks suddenly younger as he searches among the masks, and it occurs the boy that he may have been an actor once.

"Oedipus," he replies without missing a beat. Of all plays he's seen there, that one is his favorite – a man seeking the truth and losing everything when he got exactly that. Well, there is also the creepy part about incest, but oh well. Almost all of those plays have creepy parts at some point anyway.

If the old man is surprised, he doesn't let it show. "Very well. I'll be Tiresias, then," he says, putting off an old man mask – not that he needs it, the boy thinks with an inward chuckle. He then reaches for the broom, leans on it as though it's a staff, and speaks – his voice different from before, clearer, more imperious.

"You are all ignorant. I will not reveal the troubling things inside me, which I can call your grief as well."

The boy recognizes the line right away, and he knows what part of the play they're not acting. He has a good memory, he always did, and the next part comes to him with no great effort, the voice leaving the mask – even amplified by it – all the world like a grown man's.

"What are you saying? You know and will not say? Do you intend to betray me and destroy the city?"

The old man – Tiresias, now he's _Tiresias_ – shakes his head. "I will cause neither me nor you distress. Why do you vainly question me like this? You will not learn a thing from me."

The boy lets out a growl of anger and starts pacing in front of the him, back and forth, as he's seen the actor playing Oedipus do that same day. Actor? There was no actor, he thinks, and there is no play. He _is_ Oedipus now. He _is_. And he wants a truth this man will not give him; right here and now he is the king, and this old blind man denies him the truth he seeks.

_I am Oedipus now. I am Oedipus, and I want the truth._

"You most disgraceful of disgraceful men! You'd move something made of stone to rage! Will you not speak out? Will your stubbornness never have an end?"

The answer is calm and dignified as the boy's – _Oedipus' _– words are filled with anger. "You blame my temper, but do not see the one which lives within you. Instead, you are finding fault with me."

"What man who listened to these words of yours would not be enraged? You insult the city!"

"Yet events will still unfold, for all my silence."

"Since they will come, you must inform me!" Oedipus snaps, but Tiresias only shakes his head.

"I will say nothing further. Against this answer let your temper rage as wildly as you will."

And his temper – _Oedipus_' temper – rages, and how. The act comes so easily that soon enough it doesn't feel at all like he's acting. Oedipus' rage is his own as he threatens, and so is his desperation, and so is his spitefulness when he almost accuses Tiresias of Laius' murder. He put on the mask, and now he's King of Thebes – on to uncover his past and on the edge of his own demise, blinder than a blind man... for now.

"If you could use your eyes, I would have said that you had done this work all by yourself!"

Tiresias tilts his head on one side. The mask doesn't change expression, it cannot, but for a moment Oedipus – _the boy_ – almost thinks he sees that still mouth smile bitterly.

"Then I would ask you to stand by the very words which you yourself proclaimed and from now on not speak to me or these men," Tiresias proclaims. "For the accursed polluter of this land is you!"

Oedipus recoils and almost steps back, the shock and confusion those words cause so great he can scarcely believe his ears even though he _knew_, he knew from the start where this was going.

_But not Oedipus, Oedipus didn't, and I am Oedipus now._

"You dare to utter shameful words like this? Do you think you can get away with it?" Oedipus asks, voice shaking with fury.

Tiresias doesn't even flinch. "I am getting away with it. The truth within me makes me strong."

"Who taught you this? It could not have been your craft!"

"You did. I did not want to speak, but you incited me."

"What do you mean? Speak it again, so I can understand you better!"

"Did you not grasp my words before, or are you trying to test me with your question?"

Oedipus' heart beats wildly in anticipation as he speaks the next words – because the boy knows the truth, but the King of Thebes does not, and in this moment, as he waits for the answer, he's both and neither. "I did not fully understand your words. Tell me again."

And Tiresias _rises_. There are no other words to describe it, even though he does nothing more than moving the broom – _the staff _– aside with a broad gesture and straightening himself before taking one step forward. Somehow it's so majestic that the boy cannot move, not even to step back as he has told himself he'd do if the old man stepped too close to him. Something about the old man who's now a blind clairvoyant from ancient past keeps him glued to the spot, unable to tear his gaze away. He can feel a shiver running up his spine when he speaks again, his voice dark and inescapable as fate itself.

"_I say that you yourself are the very man you're looking for."_

* * *

"Hey, Phantom. Is something the matter?"

The officer's voice reaches him as though from a mile away. Sitting on the edge of his bunk, the Phantom swallows a couple of times before he trusts himself to speak. "I'm fine," he says, a hand still pressed on his forehead. "I simply... I... never mind," he mutters. His head is still pounding, but it's becoming bearable now. He pulls his hand away, causing the chain that binds his wrists to clatter. "You could say I dreamed."

The man snorts softly. "At least you didn't scream this time around. Go back to sleep if you don't want to get another round of drugs," he says, and turns away to continue his round.

As his steps fade away the Phantom closes his eyes and lets out a long, shaky breath. "Who am I?" he murmurs to the empty cell. There is not reply but the echo of a voice coming from his own mind.

_You yourself are the very man you're looking for._

* * *

The first thing Blackquill notices when the door opens and they step in is that the new security measures are nothing short of ridiculous.

If last time the Phantom's hands were chained to the table, now there is no chain left. His arms from elbows down are secured directly to the table's surface with leather straps, metal cuffs securing the wrists for good measure. Not only he cannot move his arms an inch: he cannot even _stand_. And yet his legs from knees down are strapped to the chair's legs as well, more straps keeping his midsection tied to the backrest. What in the world do they expect him to _do_?

The question is quickly pushed aside as the Phantom – who kept his head lowered and eyes closed as he and Athena walked in – finally lifts his head and looks at him. For a moment he only looks at him with sunken in eyes as though he can barely even register what he's seeing, then his lips curl into a smile. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he greets him, his voice still somewhat raspy. "It's good to see you again."

"Hmph. I cannot say the same. Personal feelings aside, you're no sight for sore eyes," he says, walking up to the table and sitting down. It is true – the Phantom looks terrible, as any man too tormented to sleep at night – but what Blackquill's eyes rest on is the man's throat. For a moment he almost fears to see the bloody gauges he dug in his own flesh in his nightmare, but of course there is no such thing; only the fading bruise where the assassin's wire almost strangled him. "I see you still carry the assassin's mark on you," he adds, trying to chase the memory of the nightmare away.

"I'll think of it as practice. When the noose slips around my neck I'll know what to expect," the Phantom says, and for a moment his right arm pulls against his bounds – as though he was about to bring his hand to his throat to–  
_claw at it in a desperate attempt to breath, to live  
_–touch the mark. He sounds calm, but his smile is now strained... and Blackquill himself doesn't feel like smiling at all.

_Stop... stop this! You must stop the execution! This is not right! This is not right!_

"It won't be like that," Blackquill hears himself saying. "The drop is meant to break your neck. You won't be strangled."

A small chuckle escapes the Phantom. "Why, that's reassuring. I can tell you that being strangled is... not pleasant," he says. "Which reminds me I forgot my manners. I suppose I should thank you for getting in the assassin's way," he adds. There is a faint smile playing across his lips now, but it's not one Blackquill can quite read. What _is_ going through that man's mind?

"Spare us both the act," Blackquill finally snorts. "It was mere instinct. As it was for you."

"_It's about the Phantom. When he took on the assassin. He said it was-"_

"_Instinct. Yes, I know. I asked him myself. I suppose that in such a situation-"_

"_He lied."_

"_... I know."_

As Blackquill watches closely for a reaction, the Phantom's faint smile turns into something different, more bitter. "Instinct, yes," he says, his voice flat.

"Uh... anyway," Athena speaks up for the first time since when they got in, taking the Phantom's attention – something of which Blackquill is inwardly grateful, as he's grateful for the fact she hasn't tried to bring up the subject of the possibility the Phantom meant to stop his execution when he indicted her. "The officers told us you remembered something. What is it?"

Any remaining trace of the Phantom's smile vanishes. "Won't you tell me what _was_ it I said last time?" he asks. Blackquill can tell right away he must have tried time and time again to remember, and time and time again he failed. "I tried to think about the end of that nightmare so many times, but it keeps bringing back nothing. If I remembered anything-"

"I'll tell you once you've told us what else you remembered," Athena cuts him off. "There is a pretty good chance you'll lose it again, and if you do then this whole session will be wasted, too. So give us something _else_ to work on first, and then... then I promise we'll try again with that, okay?"

The Phantom stares at her in silence for a moment before nodding. "Very well," he says, and begins to tell the memory he was able to dig out from the depths of his mind. Blackquill gets the feeling he's not telling them precisely everything he remembered, but it matters little when he immediately realizes how much information what he tells can give them.

"You come from a country that was at war with some other country called Cohdopia when you were a child," Blackquill sums up when the Phantom is done speaking. "A war your country lost, apparently, and that seems to have left you without a family. Is that correct?"

"I'd assume so."

Blackquill nods at him and turns to Athena. "This is more than I dared to hope. I'm certain that a little research is all we'll need to find out precisely what country he's from originally," he says, then glances back at the Phantom. "If what you recalled is correct and you were four when the war broke out, then determining your true age should be easy as well. It's not a name, but I'd say it's a start."

The Phantom nods, his gaze somewhat distant. Blackquill isn't too surprised: it's a huge step forward, and it's no real wonder the Phantom feels overwhelmed. "Sometimes," he says quietly after a few moments of silence, "I wonder if there ever _was_ a name. Every time I remember something I keep hoping someone will say a name. They never do."

"Nonsense," Athena says, sounding far more upbeat than she probably should feel around the Phantom. "There must have been one. Or at least a nickname you went by, or... or anything. But there must have been something. And we'll find out. I promise."

The Phantom glances at her for a few moments, expression unreadable, then looks down at his bound arms. "Speaking of promises," he says. "You said you'd tell me what was it I said last time after I told you of my last memory. I did as you asked. It's your turn to hold your half of the bargain."

Something about his words causes Blackquill to scowl. "I thought I made it clear that neither of us owe you _anything_. Or have you forgotten-"

"Please."

For a moment Blackquill can only fall silent, unable to fully realize that the voice he just heard – so tired, so weary, so _weak_ – actually belongs to the Phantom. He stares at him, at his hunched posture and lowered eyes, and now he sees, truly _sees_, just how close to breaking he is. He was aware for a while of the cracks forming on the shell the 'Phantom' was, but now the cracks are growing, widening, and the whole shell is just about to fall apart, exposing whatever lies beneath. What's inside may no longer be nothingness, but it's not an _individual_, either: merely the the makings of one, something with no more chances to function without that shell than a barely formed embryo would have to survive outside the womb.

Blackquill knows in that moment that if the shell that his the Phantom falls apart before he has an identity, a _self_, a name to call his own, then there will be no way for him to remain even relatively sane. None. He's losing control fast, losing his race against time, and he knows it. They may have made some progress, but the Phantom is even more desperate now than he was at the start.

Blackquill opens his mouth to speak, not quite knowing what he's even about to say, but Athena is faster.

"No, it's fine. I promised, after all," she says, her voice quiet. She looks tense, and Blackquill can tell she's wouldn't want to see the Phantom breaking down one more time, wouldn't want to hear his heart crying out once again – but she's still going ahead because she promised, and because she knows he needs to try. "Besides, you're not _bound_ to break down again."

The Phantom gives a faint smile. "I suppose there is only one way to find out."

Athena nods, and – after activating the Mood Matrix – tells him about the previous session, of how he began screaming that he was sorry, that he didn't mean to, that it was an accident. Blackquill keeps his eyes fixed on the Phantom's face and, while his expression stays flat most of the time, he can see his eyes widening when Athena mentions an _accident_. The Mood Matrix picks up something, too – sudden peaks of fear and sadness when Athena's tale ends and the Phantom stares at the empty wall past them, eyes still wide, trembling like a rabbit caught in a snare. His hands clench into fists, but aside from that he doesn't even try to move... nor he breaks down, not yet.

"Are you remembering anything?" Athena asks, concern plain in her voice.

The Phantom shakes his head, his gaze still fixed somewhere in the distance. "No, I... I don't. But... if there was an accident, if... the boy in my dream, he had to have something to do with this. But can't... I can't remember, I..." his voice breaks, and his gaze turns to Blackquill. It's almost painful to look at him now, to see the sorrow and fear etched in his features along with the confusion that comes from not knowing _why_ he's feeling them.

He's terrified, he's in pain, he's trapped, and he's looking at _him _as though he expects him to help.

"Enough," Blackquill rasps, barely recognizing his own voice now. "Phantom, enough. There is no point-"

"_Don't call me that!_"

It isn't a scream, not quite, but it's not too far away from one, and Blackquill knows that if he starts screaming then all control will be lost. And the Phantom is just there on the edge, tense and unmoving as though in the grasp of a paralysis but ready to snap any moment, eyes watering without him even blinking to clear his sight. When he opens his mouth to speak all that he leaves him in a strained whisper is a name.

"Blackquill..." he manages, only that now his voice is not his own – it's a voice Blackquill knows well and that he's never before heard like this, never so weak, never so broken.

_Fool Bright_.

Blackquill acts out without thinking for even a moment: one instant he's sitting and the next he's up, reaching out to the Phantom's face. His hands grasp the sides of his head and the heels of his hands press on the Phantom's eyes, pulling him into darkness. Somewhere in the back of his mind Blackquill recalls having heard that horses need this, too, when frightened – so that they can be pulled away from whatever terrifies them and led to safety. Blackquill knows that this is very different, that whatever demons the Phantom is battling live in his own head, but the gesture was instinctive and there is no taking it back now.

"Fool Bright," he hears himself saying, and he can hear the Phantom drawing in a sharp breath, can feel wetness against the skin of his hands. "Listen to me now. Listen to my voice and nothing else," he says, even though he has no _clue_ what he's even going to say next. There is a moment of stillness, then the Phantom relaxes and leans his head against Blackquill's hands. Something drips down his palms and on the table, between the Phantom's restrained arms.

"Who am I?" the Phantom asks, his voice hoarse.

A murderer, Blackquill thinks.

"We'll find out," he replies, hands still firmly pressed against the Phantom's eyes. "We only need time. Patience. Some investigative work. It's nothing we haven't done already, wouldn't you agree?"

"I can't remember," the Phantom rasps. "I try, but I can't _remember_."

"You can't remember _yet_," Blackquill corrects him. "You will, eventually. But trying to force it can only backfire, and we can't have that. We need you to stay as lucid as you can. You must try, at least. Don't let me down _now_, Fool Bright," Blackquill says, still not quite knowing where that came from. He can feel Athena's gaze on him, but right now he cannot look back or even tell her anything – right now the Phantom needs all his attention.

The Phantom says nothing for several moments, then he draws in a deep breath and, slowly, releases it. "I see," he finally speaks, his voice more controlled and once again _his_. "So... it's one last case together, isn't it, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

"You could say that, yes. The most important we've ever had. No failure accepted. There is no giving up."

_I will never give up on you, Prosecutor Blackquill!_

The Phantom's lips curl into a weak smirk. "Then we should give our best to solve it, shouldn't we?"

"Yes. We should," Blackquill says quietly, and for one horrible moment he fears that the Phantom will throw in a 'for justice!', but he doesn't: he simply nods and then stays silent, and Blackquill feels safe enough to pull back his hands. The Phantom's eyes are reddened, but he holds his gaze calmly.

"I thought you said that finding out who I am didn't truly matter to you," he says.

Still standing and thus towering over him, Blackquill scowls. "Your victims deserve closure," he says, his voice growing colder. "Besides, I gave my word that we'd find out who you are. I'm going to keep it."

Truth is that he _does_ want to know who this man his, how to call him; after he did to him and to people he cared for, that's the least to ask. But he knows that it's the answer the Phantom wants, too – he wants to know he matters _enough_ for him to want to know – and that's a reason not to give him that reply.

_The fact he may be yearning for some kind of... of recognition from my part doesn't make him deserving of any_.

The Phantom says nothing to that, but the way his lips curl upward one moment before he turns away is enough for Blackquill to know that he _knows_. "Miss Cykes," he says, now perfectly collected, "I believe this marks the end of the session, doesn't it?"

Athena recoils for a moment, but immediately recovers and nods. "Yes, I think it's enough. We already have some information to work on. Next time we meet we'll know where you're from and how old you are, if anything," she adds, standing up.

An amused chuckle leaves the Phantom. "I should hope I won't turn out to be too old," he says, causing Athena to tilt her head on one side.

"You don't look _old_. Unless you had plastic surgery, that's it. Maybe to change even your actual face," she muses aloud.

"Well, wouldn't _that_ be a kick in the pants," he mutters, but he doesn't seem worried by the idea his 'true face' may not even _be_ his true face at all. "No, I don't think so. My... line of work requires me to be able to recognize any scars left by such surgery, and I have absolutely none. Besides, the face I see in my memories resembles this one very closely; I saw my reflection in my first memory, on a window's glass. Unless you think I had plastic surgery to change my feature as a child, it feels safe enough to assume _this_ is my actual face. Now, if we're done, would you mind calling for the officers to get me out of this?" he adds, pulling lightly against his bounds. "I've been dying for scratch my nose for a while."

Blackquill has some difficulties fighting back the urge to cut him down.


	7. Atroquinine

_A/N: Remember when I said there would be just Blackbright "undertones" and that it would stay at the side lines? Yeah. Scratch that. The fic definitely got out of hand. Not that I think it comes as a surprise to anyone, since I think it's been kind of obvious in the past few chapters at least._

* * *

There aren't many people Blackquill can say he respects utterly, the same way he respected – still respects – his late mentor. Few people deserve that much, he thinks. But there is no doubt in his mind that Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is one of those people. He did, after all, believe in him. He aided his chase for the Phantom as much as he could, and he even allowed him to return to court despite his conviction so that he could have a chance at success. Blackquill knows that, even as Chief Prosecutor, Edgeworth had to face some serious criticism and slander for that decision. Weaker men may have faltered – but he did not.

"One thing I know is that truth will always find a way to make itself known," he had told him the day he had given him permission to prosecute once again. "We may have to fight every inch of the way, but truth is what we aim for and truth is what we'll uncover. So let them talk; I heard worse, and so have you. They'll know how wrong they've been and they'll come to understand at the right time."

If Blackquill had admired Miles Edgeworth before, he had known in that moment that the man was far more deserving of his respect that he had previously imagined.

"So you're saying that the Phantom is originally from Borginia," Edgeworth says, interrupting Blackquill's reminiscence. He's sitting at his desk, looking at his report, a steaming and still untouched cup of tea just near his hand.

Blackquill nods. "Yes, sir. Everything fits. Borginia was at war with Cohdopia in 1990, with this High General Alba the Phantom spoke of leading the Cohdopian troops and... sir?"

Edgeworth, who has let out an odd chuckle, shakes his head. "It's nothing. I simply did not expect to hear that name again; that man is long gone. As you were saying?"

"The war in question was started because of those cocoons, as the Phantom mentioned. There is one illness called Incuritis that has no cure but one that can only be made out of Borginian cocoons. Both children of Cohdopia's ruler at the time had that illness, and those cocoons were their only chance to survive. But apparently diplomacy failed, as Borginia flat-out refused to hand over even one cocoon."

"And so it was war, wasn't it?"

Blackquill nods. "Yes. The Cohdopians knew they had little time to win it and get the cocoons, therefore the attacks were especially merciless. All the main Borginian cities were targeted, which led to an extremely high number of civilian casualties. From what the Phantom could recall, his own family must have been among the victims and he supposedly was raised in an orphanage. He also recalled he was four at the time of the war. If that's correct, we can now tell he was born in 1986 and is currently forty-one years old."

Edgeworth nods and reaches to take his cup to sip some tea. "This is some remarkable progress," he says.

"But...?" Blackquill prompts him. He can sense the lingering 'but' in there, as he can tell there must be a reason why the Chief Prosecutor called for him to discuss said progress in person.

"But I'm afraid it won't be enough to placate the Interpol," Edgeworth admits with a sigh, putting the cup down once more. "They want the information the Phantom holds, and they're growing more and more impatient. Your progress is remarkable, but it may still be some time before the Phantom can be finally given a name and thus starts talking. They will not wait that long. They were not even willing to leave him in our care, to be honest; they only did because I know someone rather high up in Interpol's ranks who could vouch for me and buy us some time. That time is limited, though. If you cannot find a way to get the Phantom to share at least some of the information he holds soon, they may decide to bypass us and take the matter in their own hands. They have the authority to do so if they wish – he _is_ an international spy, regardless in whose jurisdiction he was caught."

Blackquill's hands clench into fists, but aside from that he lets nothing show. "I see," he says quietly. "That won't have to happen. I'll find a way to make him share what he knows. I didn't chase him for years only to allow someone else to cut him down and unravel his secrets."

_The Phantom is mine to deal with. _

Edgeworth doesn't seem surprised at all by his reaction. But then again, Blackquill muses as he leaves his office, he hardly ever looks surprised by anything.

* * *

"Phantom."

The Phantom raises his gaze from the book he's reading – one about Greek plays, not precisely in pristine condition but as good as it gets in a prison's library, apparently – and finds himself looking up at Prosecutor Blackquill across the bars.

"Prosecutor Blackquill," he greets him, closing the book and putting it down. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

Blackquill doesn't reply right away. His gaze shifts on the now closed book.

"Greek plays. Have you been trying to dig something more up?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid the attempt has failed to wield any meaningful results," the Phantom admits with a sigh, then, "but you must be here for a reason. Did you find out where I'm from? What war that old man was talking about?"

Blackquill nods. "I have. It seems that you are from a small European country called Borginia. Does it bring up anything?"

The Phantom shakes his head. "I know the country, and I know its language. I did not know, however, that I was born there. That's... something new," he admits. It feels odd to think that he's actually _from_ somewhere; for many years he existed without even wondering about it, as though one day he had just appeared out of thin air in no specific place at all. "Anything else?"

"Yes. The war the man spoke of is one that happened in 1990; that means your year of birth is 1986."

That causes the Phantom to give a faint smirk. "Why, that's a bit older than I expected," he says, but a part of him is already clinging to the year as it clung to the name of his home country before. It's not a name, not even an actual date, but it's still _something_. He was born in Borginia in 1986 – that's more than he's ever known of himself before. "I suppose, though, that I was hardly the only one to be orphaned by that war."

Blackquill nods. "Obviously. Thousands of children were left alone in that war. That makes it impossible for us to find out your name based solely on what we know now. And this," he adds, his voice darkening, "is where we have a problem."

Something about that causes the Phantom to frown. "What are you talking about?" he asks, standing up, not quite wanting to let Blackquill tower over him; not that it changes much, considering that Blackquill is still taller than him. "I was under the impression we just made some progress."

"Not enough," Blackquill remarks. "And, at least according to the Interpol, we're going too slowly."

"The Interpol? What does the Interpol have to do with it?" the Phantom asks, a sudden pang of worry in his chest. He knows the Interpol wanted to take him into custody before being forced to leave him in the hands of the LA Police Department – so what is this about now?

"In exchange of leaving you here, they want results," Blackquill points out. "They want the information you have. And they're tired of waiting."

The Phantom clenches his teeth so hard that his gums hurt. "I already told you that I'll tell you everything once-"

"Once you have a name to call your own, yes," Blackquill cuts him off, sounding somewhat bored. "But this is taking too long, Phantom, and they will not wait. Give them what they want."

With a laugh that sounds empty to his own ears, the Phantom shakes his head. "Do you truly think I will forfeit the only bargaining chip I have?"

"If you wish to remain here, yes. If you'd rather be left in the caring hands of the Interpol so that they can just take whatever information they want out of you, be my guest. But I cannot guarantee their methods will be as tender as ours."

"Are you trying to scare me, Blackquill?" the Phantom snaps, anger burning in his chest. "Do you think I was never caught before, threatened or tortured for information? Do you? You know nothing. _Nothing_!"

A low, dark chuckle leaves Blackquill. "No, that's not what you should be scared of. What you should worry about is the fact they'll take the information they want in the end, whatever means they use... and you can be certain you won't be given anything in return. Let alone your _name_."

"I-"

"At this rate we'll never find out who you are on time, and thus any effort we make will be useless. I will not waste my time on anything with no chance of success," Blackquill cuts him off, reaching to grasp the bars and leaning forward. "I'll stay here for three more minutes. If by then you have not decided to speak, then I'll tell the Interpol they can come over and take you right now."

The indifference in Blackquill's voice cuts deeper than anything else ever could, and the twinge in his chest feels like actual pain. "Don't act like it doesn't mean anything!" the Phantom almost screams, covering the distance between them in two wide strides and stopping right before him so that they're face to face, only separated by the iron bars of his cell. Blackquill doesn't even wince. "You want to find out who I am! You do! You want to know as much as I do! You want to know and you want to be the one to find out! You chased me for so long – don't you _dare_ pretend it would make no difference to you!"

For a moment Blackquill says nothing, and the Phantom is bracing himself for a denial when he speaks.

"If that's what you think, then you shouldn't fear to lose your, as you put it, _bargaining chip_. If you're so sure finding out who you are is so important to me, why would you hesitate to give up the information you hold? Why not give it so that we can have the time we need to uncover your past?"

The Phantom opens his mouth to speak, but his voice fails him and he can only stare at Blackquill in silence. He has a point there, he truly does. That finding out who he is matters enough to Blackquill for him to keep going on with the sessions even when the Phantom has nothing left to give in exchange is what he hopes, but he doesn't know it for a fact... and he fears, more than anything, that he's wrong. That Blackquill would be just so indifferent to everything regarding him that he'd have no qualms putting a stop to the sessions once he's had the information he wants – leaving him to live as a nobody for as long as he's given to live, with no self and no name.

_What better punishment for the murderer of his mentor?_

"You have two minutes left," Blackquill says, his voice snapping the Phantom out of his thoughts. He looks up in the prosecutor's gray eyes, but he sees nothing there that can be of any indication of what he should do: he only watches him, and waits for an answer. Not that the Phantom has much of a choice. There is, after all, only one possibly choice – a leap in the dark, holding onto the frail hope that Blackquill does, after all, want to know who he is... or that oh-so-important honor of his will apply even to him.

"If I... if I were to share the information with you, do I have your word that the sessions will continue as well?" he finally asks, reaching to grab the bars to support himself as he waits for an answer.

Blackquill doesn't make him wait for long. "Yes," he says quietly. The Phantom's heart seems to jump in his chest, but he quickly reminds himself that Blackquill may be lying. It would be a first, but he's certainly not someone Blackquill may apply his honor to. Then again, that's his only chance.

"Your word," the Phantom rasps.

"You have my word," is the calm reply, "that the sessions will continue regardless, until they yield the desired result."

The Phantom nods, breathing a little more easily. It's Blackquill words and his word only he has, but it's all he can hope for now. He lets go of the bars and takes a step back. "Very well. There is only one condition."

He expects Blackquill to point out he's in no position to give conditions, but he doesn't. "What is it?"

"I'll tell you," the Phantom says. "I'll tell you all you want to know, but to you alone. I'll share information with no one else. If they try to take me away from... from here, then I'll say nothing more. That's the only condition," he adds, catching himself barely on time before saying something else, before saying what he was truly thinking.

_If they try to take me away from you, then I'll say nothing more._

And Blackquill knows, he _must_ know what's the true reason why he's agreeing to give the information he has to him and no one else. Still, he says nothing about it: he simply nods.

"It works for me," he says, and pulls his hands away from the bars. He looks down at him calmly, none of his thoughts showing, and the Phantom only now realizes that his hands are shaking. He balls them into fists to hide it. "I'll bring up the matter with the Chief Prosecutor. Expect to be called in my office soon enough," Blackquill adds, and turns to leave without another word.

The Phantom says nothing, either, and just watches him leave. It's only once Blackquill has disappeared around the corner that he mechanically walks back to his cot and sits, the book he was reading entirely forgotten.

He gave his word, he tells himself, and he knows that Blackquill's word is nothing short of unbreakable, so he wants to believe him. He wants to trust him the same way Blackquill once trusted—  
_Fulbright_  
—him, and he can only pray that his trust isn't just as badly placed as Blackquill's was.

* * *

"Nice office."

Blackquill lets out a somewhat annoyed hum before raising his gaze from the papers. The Phantom is barely inside, his hands shackled much like his own used to be, one officer on each side to keep him still should he try anything. "You can leave," Blackquill tells the officers.

"Are you certain you don't wish for more security? We could-"

"I am perfectly capable to handle an unarmed man in shackles," Blackquill cuts him off pointedly. "Let alone one I can electrocute with a press on a switch. Do leave us. I'll call for you if I need anything," he adds.

The two men nod and leave, closing the door behind themselves to stand on the other side – unable to hear them, but ready to block the Phantom should he try to walk out through it. Not that he looks like he wants to: at the moment he seems too busy looking around.

"I like what you did with the interiors. Especially the black curtains. Nice touch, adds personality to the place. Oh, and the katana. Is it the same one...?"

"Silence," Blackquill snaps. It is the katana that killed Metis Cykes, yes: it was no longer needed as evidence, and the thought of it being destroyed was unbearable to him, so he obtained permission from the Chief Prosecutor to take it... and from Athena to keep it. He could never take it without asking her: it had belonged to her mother, a prized piece of her collection before it had been used to take her life, and now it belongs to her. Athena barely even let him finish speaking before telling him that yes, of course he could keep it.

"I have my earring to remember her by," she had told him, reaching up to touch the earring in question. "The only memento you had of her was Phantom's psych profile, and I let the Phantom take it from me and destroy it during the trial. So you should keep it. I'm sure my mother would want you to. I'm sure... I'm sure she'd be so proud of you," she had added after a moment's hesitation, and Blackquill had almost told her that the one person she should truly be proud of was her. Almost, because such direct words of praise don't come easy to him. Not anymore. So he only smiled at her, and promised to keep it safe.

Having it means so much more to him than he could possibly put into words, and if the Phantom thinks he can make fun of it and everything it represents to him he's very much mistaken. "Another word about it, and I shall press the switch," he warns, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the remote. "Until you're begging for me to either stop or finish you."

The Phantom seems to realize he overstepped, for the next moment he's sobering up and looking away from the display case the katana is in. His gaze falls on the papers scattered on Blackquill's desk. "Very well. Where do we start?"

"The HAT-1 sabotage," Blackquill replies, leaning back against his seat. "I want to know who exactly you worked for at the time, who ordered it and- what did I say or do to indicate you could do _that_?" he asks with a scowl when the Phantom sits on the office's couch, kicks off his shoes and proceeds to lie down with a satisfied sigh. "Get up at once."

"Aww, but it's comfy," the Phantom mutters, apparently not up to obey at all, and for a moment his expression is uncomfortably close to Fulbright's pout. Blackquill isn't too surprised – that some of the behavioral patterns of the man he impersonated for so long could stick around was something he expected, especially considering that the Phantom doesn't yet have a personality he can safely call his own – but seeing that expression on his face is unnerving to say the least.

"There is a seat at my desk, in case you didn't notice."

"What difference would it make?"

Blackquill snorts. "At the very least_ sit up_. You're not here to laze through some idle chattering."

With a sigh and a clattering sound of chains, the Phantom sits up. He doesn't bother to put his shoes back on. "Very well. I'm up. Now, what was it you asked again?"

"The HAT-1 sabotage. I want _names_."

"How amusing. So do I."

Blackquill glares at him. "We have been through this. You _will_ have a name; it's a mere matter of time."

The Phantom doesn't seem impressed. "I should hope so," he says somewhat drily. "How many people are listening to us right now?"

"No one. I'll be obviously recoding everything you say for the Interpol, but on one is listening as we speak."

"Am I supposed to believe this room is _not_ filled with ladybugs?"

"You have my word. Are you trying to imply I'm lying?" Blackquill asks, his eyes narrowing. "Besides, even if there were, I can't see what difference it would make to you."

The Phantom seems to ponder that for a moment, then he shrugs. "Fair enough. I suppose old habits die hard," he says, and lowers his right hand – which, Blackquill just now notices, had instinctively reached for his left wrist, fingers only meeting the cold metal of the cuff.

"I take it your watch could also deactivate ladybugs?"

"Precisely. I hope the police is treating that little jewel just right. I'm quite fond on it."

"It's _evidence_," Blackquill points out. "Of course they're going to handle it with the utmost care, lest they wish to face my wrath and my blade."

The Phantom throws back his head and gives an unnervingly familiar laugh – _Fulbright's_ laugh. For a moment Blackquill wonders if the Phantom is even aware of it, if he noticed the relapse. He's acting strangely, much more like Fulbright than as himself – however little his sense of 'self' is – and it doesn't take much psychology to tell he's doing his best to pretend he's fine.

How pathetic, Blackquill thinks: he's falling apart, needed _him_ to talk him away from the brink of a mental breakdown, and he still thinks he can cover it up with such a sad little act.

"Now I recognize you, Blackquill," the Phantom says once his laugh dies down, unaware of Blackquill's musings. "Feels just like old times, doesn't it? Well, except that now I'm the one in shackles and-"

"And that there is a _nobody_ where Fulbright used to be," Blackquill cuts him off, and it's with no small measure of satisfaction that he watches the Phantom fall silent, his lingering smile dying out. "Now," Blackquill speaks again, his voice tight, "tell me who wanted the HAT-1 launch to fail. Tell me who sent you. Tell me how you infiltrated. Tell me if anyone helped you from inside. Tell me everything and hold back nothing, or the next person to experience the cold bite of that katana may be you."

The Phantom's scowls at him, his hands balled into fists. "What makes you think it won't be you?" he almost snarls. "I could pick up that katana and end you with it, chains and all."

"You could try," Blackquill concedes, looking back up at him and staring straight in those unnervingly pale eyes. "And you would fail. But that's hardly a concern of mine."

"Oh? And why not, pray tell?"

"Because you _won't_ try," is the calm reply. "You need me alive. You _want_ me alive."

_I think... I think that was one of his goals. Stopping your execution._

_Could have ran away. Left me behind for the assassin to finish and ran to seek help, or escape._

_He has no one else to turn to. You're all he's got._

For a moment the Phantom seems like he's about to argue, and opens his mouth to speak... only that no sound leaves him. He closes it again and sighs before speaking slowly. "The HAT-1 sabotage," he says instead, his voice mechanical and cold. "Very well. Hope you're ready to record, Prosecutor Blackquill, because I won't be repeating this twice."

Blackquill simply nods and presses the recorder's record button, saying nothing. For quite a while, the Phantom's flat voice is the only sound in the room.

* * *

"... So my mentor's murder was not part of your assignment."

Blackquill's voice rings out several moments after the Phantom has fallen silent, and somehow the Phantom is not surprised to see _that_ – of all things he said – is the first thing he focuses on.

"No, it was not," the Phantom admits, keeping his gaze fixed ahead of him and avoiding to look in the prosecutor's general direction. Whatever expression Blackquill may be wearing, he highly doubts it's a pleasant one. "But she was part the reason why I, and not someone else, took the assignment. Namely, the _proof_ she held was the reason; proof not even the organization I worked for knew existed, and I meant to keep it so. A compromised spy is of no use, and they could turn against me if I was exposed. As you probably noticed, that's what happened after you took me down. Needless to say, the sniper and the assassin were not after me by chance."

"I'm well aware of that," is the dry reply.

The Phantom shrugs. "Well, that's about it. I needed to recover the proof Metis Cykes held before the organization even knew it existed, and by taking the assignment I was in the right position to do so. I must compliment you, though," the Phantom smirks, though still not looking at Blackquill: his gaze is fixed on the katana inside the glass display case, the very one he used to kill Metis Cykes. "I only ever slipped up once, and you were there to seize a sample of my voice. I was impressed, even back then."

Blackquill doesn't seem in the mood to even acknowledge the praise. He never is, really. "So taking her life was your goal all along."

"Not quite, no. Murder was not what I had in mind when I infiltrated the Space Center. I was prepared to do so and more than ready to cover my tracks if it came to it, but my first plan was simply to steal the voice recording and psych profile. I meant to avoid casualties unless it became necessary. A murder would have caused quite some stir, don't you think? As it did, as a matter of fact. It made the next day's sabotage even harder than it already was. I found the recording, but did not find the psych profile; now I know that's because you had it. As I searched, she walked in and found me. She had to be silenced. I had no choice."

"No _choice_," Blackquill spits, his words like acid. The Phantom finally turns to look at him, and he's not surprised to see his eyes are narrowed to the point they're two slits of pure malevolence. "How dare you claim you had _no choice_ but take her life?"

"She would have raised the alarm," the Phantom says flatly. "What else was I to do?"

"You shouldn't have been _there_."

"I had to recover the psych profile," is the calm reply. "As I believe I made clear, thanks to _you_ my life was on the line. Being exposed would have meant my death."

"Your pathetic waste of a life isn't worth a _tenth_ what hers was worth," Blackquill says darkly.

A bitter smirk curls the Phantom's lips. He's not surprised to hear that, and a part of him even believes it. After all, she must have been quite the exceptional person for Blackquill to be so devoted – to the point of laying down his own life to protect her daughter.

But when the assassin had his wire around my neck, he thinks, you risked it to save me as well.

It's not the same thing, he's well aware of it. An instinctive reaction is not comparable to a planned sacrifice, to years of silence despite the possibility to save yourself with only a few words. But it's _something_, the greatest danger anyone ever ran for him – for _him_, not one of the identities he took – and he clings to it.

"Perhaps not. But then again, it's the only life I have."

"Not for long," Blackquill mutters, and stands so abruptly that for a moment the Phantom is irrationally certain he's going to deliver his threat by grabbing giving him a killing blow. He instinctively tenses and almost brings his hands up to shield himself – but then Blackquill walks past him without another word, to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out for a stroll," Blackquill replies without even turning. The Phantom can tell that he's more upset than he's letting by; talking of his mentor's murder had this effect on him even when he claimed to be her killer. The reason why he's leaving is plain enough: he doesn't want to take the risk of losing control and give him any kind of psychological advantage. "You'll be locked in here until then. In case I neglected to mention it before, the glass of the display case is unbreakable. The key is on me. Don't waste time coming up with _ideas_ about that katana."

Somehow, that bit of info isn't surprising. "Aren't you afraid I could escape from the window?" he asks somewhat sarcastically.

"We're on the eleventh floor. No ladder for you to leap on outside, in case you were wondering. Besides, the window won't open without a key," Blackquill adds as he reaches for the doorknob. "And that happens to be on my person as well."

The Phantom sighs. "Good point. Ah well. I suppose I'll have to find some way to entertain myself when you're gone, uh? Don't you happen to have a deck of cards, or...?"

The sound of the door slamming shut and then that of a key turning in the lock is the only answer he gets. For a moment the Phantom stays still, the fake smile still on his lips, but the next moment it melts away and he slumps his shoulders before taking a look around, looking for anything to keep his mind busy while he waits. Anything will do – anything to keep himself from thinking too much. He highly doubts he'll find any playing cards around, so a solitaire is out of question; Blackquill doesn't even have a chessboard, a computer, TV or a radio... absolutely nothing of the sort. How is he supposed _not_ to bore himself to tears in there?

He's just about to lie back down and try to sleep through it when he notices something on the back of the office, on the right side of Blackquill's desk. Is that...?

The Phantom stands and walks up to the cabinet. It needs a key to be opened too, a small one that is already in the lock. He turns it and opens the shutters. "Bingo," he mutters, allowing himself to grin at the sight of several bottles of liquor – excellent stuff, to boot – neatly lined up inside.

Well, he thinks as he reaches to take an almost finished bottle and a still sealed one, he supposes he can think of a way or two to make the wait less boring.

* * *

By the time he steps back inside the building, Blackquill is feeling much calmer. Nothing soothes his nerves like a long walk, and after so many years being unable to have any it feels even more refreshing.

He does realize he made a mistake back in his office: he shouldn't have lashed out like that, shouldn't have shown how much the loss of his mentor still pains him. He almost gave the Phantom and edge to use against him... or maybe not. Maybe it wouldn't truly change anything: he did let Fulbright see how much the loss hurt him, after all, so it is nothing the Phantom didn't know already. Still, he was not thinking clearly as he should have – that's why he still thinks that leaving for a stroll was the best course of action. It allowed him to clear his mind, and he's ready to keep questioning the Phantom.

Blackquill stops in front of his office, barely acknowledges the officers standing outside with a nod and, after drawing in a deep breath, unlocks the door and steps in.

The Phantom is lying on the couch, which is something Blackquill expected. What he didn't expect to see, however, was an empty bottle and an empty glass on the small table beside it. The Phantom shifts, but he doesn't bother to sit up: he only tilts back his head over the armrest until he's looking at him upside-down.

"Hey, Prosecutor. Was wondering where you went. Had a nice walk?" he asks, sounding far more cheerful than he has any right to be.

"I see you helped yourself to the liquor cabinet," Blackquill says drily, noticing that there is yet another bottle on the table, still untouched. It seems that the Phantom has taste, if anything: he picked the most expensive brandy he could find. "I was under the impression you were a teetotal."

The Phantom chuckles, not bothering to get up from the couch. "Fulbright was."

"And you're not?"

"Apparently not. The more you know," is the reply. The Phantom finally sits up and reaches for the still unopened bottle, opens it and pours some brandy in the glass. "You could have told me sooner you had this in your office. I would have come over a lot more willingly," he says, and brings the glass to his mouth.

"I'd say you had enough," Blackquill snaps, snatching the glass from his hand as the brandy barely wets his lips. "There are several things you have yet to tell me. You'll do so sitting properly at the desk. And unless you wish to be cut down, put your shoes back on," he adds, sitting and putting the glass on the desk.

The Phantom licks the brandy left on his lips and sighs somewhat dramatically. "What a slave driver," he mutters, but he does as he was told to do without further complaints.

"Now," Blackquill says as the Phantom sits – a bit heavily – on the seat across his desk. "Tell me more about your organizations you referred to. I want to know where they're based. I want to know what corporations and countries aid them. I want _names_ of those involved."

"I hope you're aware that there are plenty of things I don't know," the Phantom points out. "Things tend to get secretive when you're into espionage, you know. Even the best spy could be caught or compromised, or could even turn against you. I was never let on _everything_ that happened. I had my assignments and the information I needed to succeed – that was it. Of course, I was able to get some contacts of my own to find out some more than I was meant to, maybe..."

"So you spied on the very same people you worked for?"

The Phantom gives a grin that reminds Blackquill of Fulbright's own. "A real workaholic, aren't I?"

"Hmph. Put that to use, then, and start talking," Blackquill says, reaching to start the recorder once again.

And the Phantom talks, he really does: for a while his voice is the only sound in the room, along with the scratching noise of pen on paper as Blackquill writes down some of the most important parts so that he can work on them with no need to listen to the recording again. He gives him quite a lot of information – about the organizations he was in contact with, the way they work, about the members... all things the Interpol will be satisfied with.

It's only after several minutes that the Phantom stops talking and coughs. Blackquill keeps his eyes on the sheet he's writing on, waiting for him to resume, but he doesn't: he clears his throat instead, and shifts on the seat. Blackquill looks up and notices that the Phantom is frowning, a hand reaching up to touch his throat.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Blackquill asks, raising an eyebrow. The Phantom doesn't reply right away: he swallows a couple of times, his breathing quicker, and Blackquill now notices that his hands are trembling.

"I..." the Phantom starts, but he pauses and swallows again. He seems confused, and somewhat alarmed. Is he about to have another breakdown? It could be, Blackquill thinks, though it is a little unexpected: they haven't talked about anything he'd think could trigger such a reaction. Is he so scared of the countless preople who want him dead that even talking some time about them makes him nervous all of a sudden?

Whatever the reason, he thinks, they need the Phantom's mind to stay as lucid as possible – which means no breakdowns if he can avoid them. After a moment of hesitation, Blackquill finally sighs and reaches to turn off the recorder. "I believe we've done enough for one day," he says, not even looking at the Phantom, and reaches for the glass on his desk; a drink now would be most welcomed. "We'll resume tomorrow," he adds, and brings the glass up to his mouth.

It never touches his lips.

"NO!"

Blackquill lets out a surprised gasp when the Phantom cries out and the glass is suddenly thrown off his hands with a blow, shattering on the ground. He instinctively stands, expecting another blow, an attack – but the the Phantom just crumbles forward with a hawking noise, on top of his desk and then down on the floor. He tries to raise, but he fails to and can only roll on his side before... before...

Blackquill is snapped out of his confusion when the Phantom's back arches unnaturally, to the point it almost seems impossible for it _not_ to be breaking, features contorted in pain and eyes glassy, staring ahead without seeing. The realization cuts through Blackquill's confused mind like a blade through flesh, and his eyes widen as his gaze falls on the shattered glass he almost drank from.

_Poison_.

And there is only one poison he knows of that has such an effect, one of the deadliest known to man with only one person ever having survived it –Atroquinine.

"No!"

He doesn't even realize he screamed, for the next moment he's running past the desk, past the agonizing Phantom and to the door. He slams it open and screams at the officers outside so loudly that his throat hurts.

"_An ambulance! Quick!"_

"Wha...? Prosecutor, is something wro-"

"OF COURSE there's something wrong!" Blackquill snaps back, his hand shooting out to grab the nearest man's collar. "Call an ambulance now! Tell them we have a case of Atroquinine poisoning – I want a medical team here _at once_!"

That seems to work, finally, for both men run off in different directions – one to call the ambulance and the other, he assumes, to get a medical kit... like _that_ could help. Atroquinine paralyzes the nervous system, and nothing in a medical kit could help with it. Blackquill realizes, with a sinking feeling, that the chances of the Phantom surviving are incredibly low. Only one person in history ever survived the poison, and as far as he knows she ingested a very small quantity of it – how much did the Phantom take? Were both bottles poisoned, or was the poison only in the one whose content he barely tasted?

"P-pros... prosecu...tor... Black... ugh..."

His usually sharp mind clouded by a horrible sense of unreality, Blackquill turns back to the Phantom. He's still where he left him, back still painfully arched, struggling to speak – and before he even realizes it Blackquill is kneeling next to him, reaching to cradle his head so that the Phantom's eyes rest on him. And the Phantom does look up at him, his features still horribly contorted, veins in his neck bulging. He opens his mouth to speak, but Blackquill shakes his head.

"Don't," he hears himself saying. "Don't speak. Save your strength. Listen to me now – focus on my voice. An ambulance is coming. You will be fine," he adds, but he knows he doesn't sound as certain as he'd like; not while knowing what poison was used, not while seeing him like this, back arched unnaturally and body rigid as a wood plank. It is almost certain that death will claim him .

Blackquill clings to that _almost_ with all he has. And why not? He himself is no stranger to being torn away from Death's grasp, after all. It happened two months ago, it happened mere weeks ago, and it happened again just now – the Phantom has saved his life yet again. What a cruel jest is this, that he must owe his life to the man who took so much from him?

The Phantom's eyes stay fixed on him and now there is an odd, hawking sound coming from him. Blackquill cannot tell what it is – is it an attempt at laughing? Is it a sob? Is he just trying to speak? He cannot tell.

"Don't," he rasps, pressing a hand on the Phantom's forehead. His thumb brushes over the bullet scar he got hell knows when, hell knows by whose hand, hell knows in what life. Did he survive being shot in the head, survived a sniper, survived an assassination attempt only to die like _this_? Blackquill refuses to believe it; somehow, it feels unbelievably cruel. "Don't. Don't speak, don't... God damn you, _don't_. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright."

A shaky breath, and the Phantom manages to move his head just enough to bury his face against Blackquill's jacket. "Who," he breathes. "W-who... am I...?"

"We'll find out," Blackquill says, moving a hand to better support the Phantom's head, fingers tangling in his hair. "You have my word, we'll find out. We will. Don't die on me. We need to do this."

The Phantom draws in a shuddering breath before speaking again in what's little more than a whisper, his voice muffled by Blackquill's jacket. "Our... last case... together... right?"

"That's right," Blackquill finds himself saying, his grip around the Phantom's head tightening. "We'll get to the bottom of it. You have my word. Now be quiet."

But he doesn't fall quiet, not yet. "P-prose... cutor...?"

"What is it?"

"I never... never should have doubted... y-your word, I... I t-trust... I..."

"I know," Blackquill cuts him off, the sense of unreality still there, keeping him from truly realizing they're even having that conversation. "I trusted you, too."

_I truly did, once._

"I-I'm sorry about... about..."

"Don't speak, Fool Bright. Don't-"

"What I... did," the Phantom breathes, causing him to trail off. "To your... mentor, and... Athena Cykes... your sis...ter... F-Fulbright..." He pauses and swallows painfully before speaking again, his voice weaker. "I'm not... sorry I did it. I'm not. But I... I wish I could be. I'm s-sorry... I can't."

And that's it, that's the last Blackquill can hear, because the next moment the paramedics are in and the Phantom is taken from him, immediately surrounded by a blur of specters in white.

* * *

_The whole part about the poisoning was not my idea. I was planning on having another assassination attempt happening, but I wasn't thinking of poisoning. That was suggested by Plotdesigner/magicgenetek (nicks on Tumblr and Ao3 respectively), and it was a so much better idea than mine that I just had to use it._


	8. Coma

"SIMON!"

Blackquill has barely enough time to turn before Athena is on him, arms reaching to hold him and face burrowed in his chest. She's breathing hard, having clearly ran up the stairs... and possibly all the way from the Wright Anything Agency, or the courthouse, or wherever she was when news of what happened reached her. Speaking of which, _how_ does she know already?

"Athena," he says quietly, not at all displeased but rather taken aback. He's aware of the fact a couple of officers are less than pleased by the fact they were almost run over by Athena as she ran through the hallway to reach him. "What are you doing here?"

Athena pulls back and looks up at him. She's still panting, but relief is plain on her face. "Gumshoe called the office to tell us something happened. He said there was poison in your office and that you were in the hospital, and I thought..." she pauses and draws in a deep breath before breathing out, a hand reaching up to rest over her heart. "I'm so glad to see you're fine! If you had died, I... I...!" she trails off and sniffles, apparently unable to finish the sentence.

Blackquill blinks. "... is that _exactly_ what Gumshoe told you?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. What was that utter imbecile thinking? What possessed him into delivering the news _that_ way? He should dread the moment he'll be back, he thinks; if he's _very_ lucky, then his salary will be the only thing to be cut.

Athena seems confused. "Well... yes? More or less. He wasn't especially clear. I mean, he was kinda worried and then I pretty much panicked as well. Why?"

A sigh. "It seems he has a way of twisting things I cannot hope to match," Blackquill muses. "It is true that there was poisoned brandy in my office, but I drank none of it. I was never poisoned."

_Because the Phantom stopped me on time._

There is a moment of silence as Athena just stares at him, her expression turning into something halfway between incredulous and exasperated. "What, _really_? And I got so worried, too!" she exclaims.

Blackquill can't hold back a tired smile. "Well. I appreciate that."

"I almost got a ticket for speeding!"

"... I was under the impression you did not have a driving license."

"Don't change subject!" Athena says, crossing her arms, and her frown turns back into confusion once again. She glances around. "But if you're fine, then... what are you doing in a hospital?"

Blackquill's smile fades, and he once again feels incredibly tired. He sits back down on one of the seats of the nearly empty waiting room. "I was not poisoned," he says, "but the Phantom was. There was some poisoned brandy in my office; Gumshoe was correct on that. A very powerful poison, almost always deadly. The Phantom drank it."

Athena's hand reaches up to cover her mouth. "So he's... is he...?"

"He was alive when he was brought in," Blackquill says, nodding toward the double door that separates them from the intensive care unit. "Barely, but alive. I don't know how he's faring now; doctors have yet to come out and deliver some news. But I suppose that in such cases, no news is still good news," he adds with a sigh. "I can't believe I let a such thing happen in my office. I should have been more careful. I should have taken the cabinet's key with me when I left. I-"

"That's so stupid!" Athena snaps, balling her hands into fists and causing him to trail off. "It's not your fault! How were you supposed to _know_ there was poison in your stuff? I mean, it's not like..." she pauses and, again, her scowl melts into a confused expression. "... wait. Who put the poison in there anyway?"

Blackquill gives an empty laugh. "I wish I knew. The police is working on it, and the bottles have been handed to the forensics team. We may know something more soon. At the moment the only thing I can be certain of is that someone wants me dead."

Athena bites her lower lip. "You? Don't you think the target may have been the Phantom?"

"It seems unlikely. The poison was in my brandy, in my office. How could they imagine the Phantom would have any of it anytime soon? They couldn't. Until yesterday, there was no knowing he would ever be in my office at all. No, he was not the target this time. I was. It would appear," he adds with a tired smirk, "that my interest for the Phantom is gaining me a few enemies."

"Well..." Athena hesitates for a moment, then she gives a bright smile and punches her palm as though getting ready for a fist fight. "Then I guess we should wrap this up quickly, huh? Get all the information we can from the Phantom, I mean. The sooner we can get those people arrested, the sooner you'll be safe."

"If the Phantom lives to talk," Blackquill reminds her. The thought that man may be about cross the Styx still nameless makes him feel as though a weight settled on his chest, but he can't stop the smirk that now curls his lips. It's good to see Athena like this, to see what the shy and quiet child he knew has grown into. It can make him feel like everything may be alright after all, like they can defeat all odds. Hasn't she already proved they can do just that, after all? Achieve impossible victories against all odds?

"He will. He's got to," Athena says confidently. "He has so many things left to tell. No way he can die now. Besides, we have yet to find out who he is. We promised, after all."

"Now you're talking like he's your client."

Athena shrugs. "Well, it feels a bit like that. Not my client as a _lawyer_, but still. I promised I'd help, and so I will," she adds, and sits down next to him. "Mind if I wait here with you for a while?"

Blackquill smiles. "Not at all," he says. There are a few moments of silence, and he's the one to break it eventually. "He save my life."

"What?" Athena looks up at him, clearly surprised. "Saved your life?"

"Yes. He drank the poison first. It takes about fifteen minutes for the symptoms of Atroquinine poisoning to show, and they were starting to show just as I was about to drink as well. One mouthful could have been my death. But the very last thing the Phantom did before collapsing was knocking the glass from my hands," Blackquill says, and looks down at his own hands. Sometimes it still feels odd seeing them like this, with no shackles at his wrists. "He must have realized he had been poisoned, and stopped me before I could take any poison myself. I owe him my life. I owe him a name," Blackquill adds, his hands closing into fists. "If he dares dying before that happens, I swear I'll find a way to make him pay even from beyond the grave. I shall not live in his debt."

"That's a pretty dramatic way to say you hope he'll pull through," Athena says, and Blackquill realizes she isn't _that_ surprised anymore – as if the thought of the Phantom saving his life is not as strange as he feels it is. Then again, why should she? She is, after all, the one who brought up a theory Blackquill couldn't even begin to believe at first.

_I were convicted for my mother's murder as well, then you would have walked free. I think... I think that was one of his goals. Stopping your execution_

Does he believe it now? A part of him wishes he could say he doesn't.

"Hey, Athena!"

Both Blackquill and Athena look up to see a young woman in a lab coat standing a few feet from them, brown hair loose on her shoulders and a bad of snacks in her hands. She doesn't look familiar at all to Blackquill, but Athena seems to know her. "Ema!" she greets her, standing up with a smile. "Congrats for passing the test! You have yet to come over the agency to celebrate. You promised, remember?"

The woman – Ema – gives smirks. "Sorry about that, I've been pretty busy. Science stuff. I'll come to visit soon. Tell Trucy I'll get her some more fingerprints powder," she adds, then turns to Blackquill. "Prosecutor Blackquill, right? Nice to meet the guy who out-famed that glimmerous fop in the courthouse. I'm Ema Skye, from the precinct's forensics team. We're done with the analysis on the bottles. I figured you'd like to know the results."

Blackquill has no idea what a 'glimmerous fop' even is, but that doesn't matter in the slightest. "Enough chattering already. Out with the res-" he trails off and recoils when something hits his forehead. Did she just throw a _snack_ at him?

"No need to be rude," Skye says, apparently not at all put off by his glare. "I was getting there. As I was just about to say, we analyzed all bottles. The empty one had no trace of Atroquinine in it. It was the other one that had it – plenty of it. I'm surprised the guy is not dead already if he drank from there."

Blackquill releases a long breath, relief making him forget all about her earlier disrespect. If the poison was only in the second bottle, then...! "He barely drank any," he says. "The brandy from that bottle wet his lips, nothing more. He must have ingested a very small amount," he adds. Of course even a small amount of Atroquinine can be deadly, but it's a sliver of hope: the smaller the amount, the more chances he has to live.

_I, on the other hand, was about to drink quite a mouthful._

"Good for him, then," Skye is saying. "He'd have had no chance otherwise. Not that things are looking bright even now. But you know, if Vera could make it last year... then maybe he'll recover, too."

"That's great!" Athena exclaims. Blackquill has to wonder if she's trying to stay upbeat or if she really cannot tell the difference between a full recover and a slim chance of one. "Simon, how about-"

"Prosecutor Blackquill?"

Blackquill turns to a voice calling out for him and a door closing. A doctor is coming out of the intensive care unit, a balding middle-aged man who looks almost as pale as Blackquill himself under the harsh light in the waiting room. His heart beating just a little faster, Blackquill nods at him.

"Doctor. What's the situation?" he asks. He can barely hear Athena approaching until she's right beside him and reaches to clutch his sleeve as she did through Fulbright's funeral.

The man reaches to rub the back of his neck. "He's in a coma at the moment. The situation is extremely serious, but it seems to be stationary. He must have ingested a very small amount of poison. It's still too soon to truly say he has a chance, but he might have one if he passes the night. And then, of course, we'll have to hope he awakens. Some never do, and the more time passes the less likely he'll be to awaken. We're doing our best to help, but there are limits to what we can do. The rest is up to him."

Blackquill nods, his lips pulled in a tight line. The situation looks bleak, but then again he's not dead and he supposes that's something, at least. "I see. Is it possible to see him?"

"If you wish to, yes. Though of course he won't know you were there. And the sight may be... upsetting."

"It doesn't matter. I wish to see him."

"Very well. You'll need to put on some sterile garments, and a surgical mask. I'll send a nurse to give you those, and some disinfectant."

"Tell them to bring two of each," Athena speaks up, letting go of Blackquill's sleeve. "I'm coming in, too. Ema, can you let the officers know what the situation is?" she calls out, turning back to her friend. "They'll want to be informed, and I'm sure some officer will have to stand guard around here just in case. They tried to assassinate him twice already."

Skye nods. "Sure thing," she says through a mouthful of some snack, and turns to leave. Blackquill barely notices, his attention focused on Athena.

"You don't need to come in," he says.

"Neither do you, but you're still going and so am I," is the reply, and Blackquill has learned to know that tone very well – it's the one Dr. Cykes would use when her mind was set and there was no arguing her decisions. And he doesn't argue: he just nods, and doesn't say anything anymore as they start putting on the sterile garments they're being handed.

* * *

The Phantom is so pale that it's hard to tell, at first glance, where the sheets end and his skin begins.

He's always pale, yes, even more than Simon – but now he looks more like a corpse than a living being. And he looks oddly _small_, Athena thinks, almost lost among the tubes, wires and machines connected to him. There is a tube going in his mouth and down his throat, two smaller tubes going in his nostrils and monitor tabs are connected to his head and chest; his arms are strapped down to the bed, and there is an IV going in his right arm. There is a lot of whirring and beeping as the machines monitor his breathing, heart rate and brain activity; nothing written on those screens makes any sense to her, but she can hear just how weak his heartbeat is, how shallow his breathing.

"Well, he's... alive," she finally says, her voice muffled by the surgical mask she's wearing. Now that she sees him it's hard for her to stay as optimistic as before, but she's got to try – for Simon's sake, if anything.

Simon doesn't reply: his gaze is fixed on the Phantom, and it's unreadable. But his heart still speaks to her, and she can tell how confused he is, how conflicted, how angry and, yes, how worried. It doesn't surprise her, not really: he's simply not ready to the let Phantom go. She wonders if he'll ever truly be.

"Seven years chasing a phantom," Simon finally speaks quietly, snapping her from her thoughts, "but it was only a man, all along. Phantoms are not supposed to die, wouldn't you say?"

"I... guess not. But hey, who says he'll die?"

"He may live, yes. And he may never wake up. Wouldn't that be the worst scenario? Neither dead nor alive. Only existing. There was a man, back in prison," Simon adds. "Who was in a coma for years. When he woke up he found he had nothing left to live for. He forfeited his name and hid his face; he often said it would have been best for him to never wake up again. But he also believed he had one reason to live again, one thing to do before death could claim him. He thought that was what had kept him from dying. Perhaps it will be the same for the Phantom. There is something he still needs to do before he dies. Godot was at peace when he left this world. I wonder if the Phantom will be allowed the same."

Athena bites her lower lip and looks again at the man resting on the bed. She tries to see again the imposing, towering figure that stood over her mother's bloodied corpse, but what she remembers has nothing to do with what she's seeing now. This is no phantom – it's only a man, as Simon said. A man on the brink of death with no identity and no name, no past and no self, with nothing and no one to turn to but the very person whose mentor he killed, the very person who had to pay for his crimes for seven long years, the very person he worked with for a year and whose trust he betrayed. The person whose life he saved.

"He apologized. I suppose. In his own way," Simon speaks again, causing Athena to blink.

"He... apologized?" she asks. Simon nods, gaze still fixed on the Phantom.

"He was not sorry for what he did. None of the people he killed meant anything to him, and he claims their death was necessary for him to save himself. He didn't even mention Justice's friend – only the victims that meant something to _me_. But he said he was sorry for being unable to be sorry. Had he died then, those would have been his last words. Would you believe it? Sorry he's not sorry. Such a pitiful fool."

For a moment, Athena isn't sure what to think. The thought her mother's life meant absolutely nothing to this man still hurts, and it hurts horribly. It feels almost impossible when she thinks of the gaping hole her death left in her life; it feels _wrong_. What must it be like, she wonders, regretting one's own lack of regret? Being aware of the fact something is so fundamentally wrong with you that you're unable to feel even what you know you _ought_ to feel?

She looks back down at the Phantom, but of course she gets no answer: all she sees is a man who's barely clinging to life, entirely depending on some machines and constant medication. Then her gaze falls on his forehead, on the bullet scar – a reminder that he was shot in the head once, and that maybe, just _maybe_ there is an explanation for his limited emotional spectrum, lack of empathy and missing memories. All of it can be a result of brain damage, and he _was_ shot in the head.

But when was he shot? By who? Why? And what kind of person _was_ he before then?

Athena tears her gaze away from the Phantom's face. "He'll live," she says, looking up at Simon. "And we'll know his name. Who he is and who he was."

Simon looks back at her, his gaze thoughtful. "You want to find out as much as I do," he states.

She nods. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I promised," Athena says once again, but Simon keeps staring and she can tell that he knows there is more to it. She sighs. "Fine. You know why. It's because I want to know who the man who killed my mother truly is. And..." she pauses before speaking again. "And because he saved your life. It doesn't change anything of what he did before, but he still did. Twice. And he _lied_ when he said he saved you out of mere instinct the first time. I want to believe there may be something worth saving in that abyss he claims he is."

Blackquill gives a heavy sigh and looks back at the Phantom's still form. "Even if he survives this, he will die eventually," he says gravely. "With at least three murders to answer for, death penalty is certain as the stars. There is no saving him. Be it now or in a few years, he will pay for his crimes with his life."

"I wasn't referring to his life," she says quietly.

"... I suspected as much," Blackquill murmurs, and a disinfected hand reaches out to rest on the Phantom's own hand. The man stays unresponsive, and Blackquill's expression stays unreadable. "He claimed he left everything he was behind, including his soul. But perhaps he never did. He only forgot he had one. I chased a phantom, but when the moment will come for him to pay, I want to see a _man_ standing before me. Perhaps I want the same as you – believe there is something worth saving in there," he adds, and pulls back his hand with a bitter chuckle. "Good grief, I sound all the world like Fulbright now."

Athena smiles a little. "True. I'm sure Fulbright would have believed in him, too. He was that kind of guy," she adds. The fact she never truly meet him doesn't even cross her mind: it feels so much like she _did_.

"And it got him killed," Blackquill remarks, bitterness plain in his voice. "He was a fool."

"He was a good man, and he was _happy_," Athena says somewhat defensively. "He had so many friends, and a job he loved, and I... I don't think he was a fool at all, in the end. His life was worth living, a million times more than his," she adds, gesturing to the Phantom's still form. Truth to be told, sometimes she has wondered if the Phantom ever thought about it. Was he ever envious of what Fulbright had, of what Fulbright _was_? Did he ever wish he could _be_ Fulbright? Had he succeeded in convicting her and saving Simon from execution without being exposed... would he have kept the act up? Would he have kept living as Bobby Fulbright, kept working with Simon as a detective? And for how long?

Simon looks at the Phantom for a few more moments, saying nothing. When he speaks again his voice sounds distant. "Go home. I'll stay at the hospital tonight. Let that useless detective know it."

For a moment Athena is about to protest, but decides against it: she can tell Simon won't change his mind. "Let me know if there are any changes," she finally says before turning to leave in silence, closing the door softly behind herself.

* * *

_"__See? Easy as pie. There is no one here."_

_"__I don't know, I don't like it in here. It's dark...!"_

_"__That's what flashlights are for, big baby."_

_"__Aren't you even a little scared?"_

_"__Nope. Careful there, there's a gap. The catwalk is rusted through. Let me go ahead."_

_"__But what if you fall?"_

_"__I won't. I never fall."_

_For a while there is silence, only broken by light footsteps on metal echoing in a large, dark space. Two beams of light are the only thing piercing the darkness._

_"__Seymour, did you hear that?"_

_"__Hear wha-"_

_"__Shhh. Listen."_

_There are voices in the dark, coming from somewhere ahead of them, barely audible. It sounds like several people. There is a light ahead, very faint and apparently filtering through an air vent – but light it is, and someone is talking. "Shit. There is someone here! We've got to go back!"_

_"__Wait, I want to see what's going on. No one is supposed to be here. I want to see who it is."_

_"__Who cares? It's someone who got to the stuff before we did, end of the story. I don't want to be seen. Let's head back. We'll find something else to make some money with."_

_"__I'm going."_

_"__Are you insane?"_

_"__I'm curious. If there's something going on, I want to know what it is. We can still make a few bucks out of it if it turns out to be some interesting stuff to tell. What do you think could happen anyway? We're gonna stay up on the catwalk."_

_"__I don't like this!"_

_"__Well, I'm still going. You can stay here, scaredy cat."_

_"__What? Alone?"_

_"__Nah, not alone. Didn't a worker die here once? Maybe there's his ghost somewhere. Maybe at some point you'll turn and he'll be there, with blood on his face and his neck broken all joints twisted and-"_

_"__Fine, fine! I'm coming, you asshole. But we'll just take a peek and then get the hell out of here, okay?"_

_"__Now you're talking."_

_No more words, then, only light steps on metal – again – and the light coming from the air vent keeps getting closer, as do the voices. They grow louder, but no clearer, as though speaking in a foreign language. The light grows stronger as the vent grows closer, beckoning them closer still until darkness is no more and everything fades to white first..._

_… __and then to red._

* * *

_Blood is spreading quickly, staining the immaculately white suit crimson, but the man isn't bothered: it's far from the first time he sees blood, after all, and there is no risk of anyone walking in any time soon. Therefore it feels safe enough to turn his attention away from the corpse and take a good look at Detective Fulbright's living room. It isn't especially large, but it's tidy and clean, with walls so white they're almost blinding and little furniture – no more than it's necessary._

_All in all, the whole place speaks loudly of a man who's barely home at all through the day. It's nothing the—  
phantom  
—man doesn't know, though: he has observed Detective Fulbright for quite a while and learned all he could about him – his past and his work, his habits and quirks, his friends and family – in order to become him when he'd have to. He knows Fulbright is the kind who gets out early in the morning and comes back home late in the evening, his whole day spent in the pursuit of justice; he loves nothing more than his work._

_Still, the little furniture that there is isn't lacking photographs of several people, posing with Fulbright himself for the camera; friends, family, colleagues and people he helped out at some point or another, it seems. The man goes through them, and he's satisfied of the fact he can recognize each person he sees with no hesitation. He knows everything he needs to know: a job well done. All he needs to do now is dispose of the corpse, make it unrecognizable and slip into Bobby Fulbright's skin. _

_Time to become Bobby Fulbright._

_The man walks back to the corpse and looks down. Fulbright died with his eyes open, not even realizing what was happening, and his sunglasses were knocked off his face when he fell. They're on the floor next a still, white-gloved hand. Another hand, still glove-less and scarred, reaches to pick them up. There are a few specks of blood on one lens, but it hardly matters now. The man puts them on, looks back down at the corpse and curls his lips into a smile – detective Fulbright's smile._

_"In justice we trust," Bobby Fulbright says, and reaches to take the badge away from what's going to be nothing but a nameless corpse._

* * *

"... taking all this in account," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth finishes, "it's safe to assume you were the target."

"I assumed as much, yes," Blackquill says tiredly, closing his eyes for a few moments. He hasn't gotten a minute of sleep the whole night, and Edgeworth seems to notice how just how tired he is.

"I heard you spent the night at the hospital."

"I did."

"I also heard the Phantom lived through the night. That's... encouraging," he says, and Blackquill nods. It actually is encouraging, all things considered: it means that now he actually stands a chance to survive.

"I want to be clear on this," the doctor said. "He's not out of danger yet. The fact he lived through the night means he has a chance at survival – but it's still not _likely_. We can only wait and see."

"It is better than news of his death, I suppose," Blackquill concedes before turning his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do you believe the Phantom's organization has something to do with it?" he asks, even though he knows that much is a given. As he expected, Edgeworth nods.

"Yes, that must be it. But why target you rather than the Phantom? You _do_ make an easier target all things considered, but even with you gone the Phantom may still speak – and that is what they want to avoid."

Blackquill has to admit he has a point; he did wonder the same as well through the night. "True enough. Not only that, but my death wouldn't have kept the investigation from going on, either. I suppose the real question is, what would they accomplish by killing me?"

The frown on Edgeworth's brow deepens. "I asked myself the same. And while I don't like it, there is only one relevant reason I can think of," he says. "As you recall, the Phantom made it clear he'd refuse to speak to anyone but you. And that threat is what kept the Interpol from taking custody of him: they _want_ him to speak, after all. But if you died..." he pauses and looks back at Blackquill. "If you died, then the Interpol would take him in custody."

The implications of what the Chief Prosecutor is saying makes something remarkably similar to a cold chill run up Blackquill's spine. "Are you suggesting the Interpol...?" he starts, but Edgeworth shakes his head.

"Not the Interpol _itself_, no. But according to one of my contacts there, some suspicious communications between an Interpol office and a few corporations have been detected. They're looking into the matter as we speak and at the moment there is no official case, but Lang seems to think that whatever organization the Phantom works for may have a mole in the Interpol. It wouldn't be the first time a such thing happens."

Blackquill nods, reaching up to rub his chin. "If that's the case," he says slowly, "if I died and the Phantom was taken in custody by the Interpol, then this... mole may have been in the right position to kill him. Is that what you think they aimed for?"

Edgeworth nods. "Yes. That's my theory, and not only my own. But there is nothing we can do now, aside from letting Lang find this mole and question them. You can be certain he'll leave no stone unturned: he has a special hatred for spies within his ranks."

"There must be someone in the courthouse that's on the organization's payroll as well," Blackquill says. "The person who put the poisoned bottle in my liquor cabinet."

Edgeworth nods. "I am well aware of that, and we're working on it. Detective Gumshoe was the one who refilled your liquor cabinet."

Blackquill stares at him for several moments as what he just said sinks in. "... surely you jest," he finally says flatly. Edgeworth looks back at him and he must see the sheer incredulity in his gaze, for the next moment his eyes widen.

"What...? Oh, no. That's not what I mean," he says immediately. "Detective Gumshoe refilled your cabinet, yes, but by his own admission he left the bottle in the lobby to get himself a snack. That must have been when the culprit put the poison in by using a syringe to pierce the cap; that's how the poison was put inside. A gross oversight from Gumshoe's part – not the first, truth to be told – but that's all that there is to it."

The explanation seems to make sense, but on the other hand it feels a bit too... convenient. Sure, Detective Gumshoe doesn't seem to have a single mean bone in his body, a well-intentioned fool – but then again so did Fulbright. "With all due respect, sir," he says slowly, "have you considered the possibility Detective Gumshoe may have lied?"

"No." The answer is sharp, leaving no room for debate. A little too sharp, perhaps, and Edgeworth himself seems to realize it. When he speaks again, his voice is calm as always. "I have not considered it because it's not a possibility. Prosecutor Blackquill, I understand your suspicions: you haven't known Detective Gumshoe for long, and your previous partner detective turned out to be an international spy and a murderer. But I've known him for... why, for a long time. Too long for my health, perhaps," he adds with a faint smile. "I'd vouch for him with the same certainty I vouched for you when you needed it. Detective Gumshoe had absolutely no idea that bottle was poisoned. Of that I am certain."

And he _does_ sound certain, like a man stating the tenets of the universe. Finally, Blackquill nods. "Very well. I may not know Detective Gumshoe much, but I trust your judgment entirely. If you believe his story, so do I."

Edgeworth nods. "It's good to see we're on the same page. Now, there is another peculiar thing about this – something that fits perfectly with what Detective Gumshoe told us. There were several bottles in your cabinet, but only one had poison in it. Had the poisoner been someone with access to your cabinet, wouldn't it have made more sense to poison more than just one bottle? It would have greatly increased the probability you'd drink it soon."

"In other words," Blackquill says slowly, "the culprit had no access to my office. But they couldn't know in advance that a bottle meant for my cabinet would be left unguarded in the lobby because Fool Bri-" he trails of and bits his tongue, inwardly cursing himself. He hates these slip-ups that still occur from time to time, how he sometimes still turns and expects to see Fulbright – _but it's not Fulbright, it was never him_ – standing by his side, ready to fill him in with details of the case.

Edgeworth, on he other hand, doesn't remark on that slip of tongue – something Blackquill is inwardly grateful for. "You're correct," he says. "Whoever put the poison in the bottle clearly had no idea they'd get a chance to do so yesterday morning, nor they could access to your office. And yet I find it hard to believe that they'd walk in here with such deadly poison on them without any prospect of putting it to use. Bringing a such thing in here is serious offense, and since security has been tightened there was a very real risk of it being found by a random security search. This leads me to believe that, when the culprit brought the poison in here, they thought they could be able to put it to use. Not only that, but the sheer amount of poison is uncanny. The same amount would have been enough to poison several bottles with deadly results."

The Chief Prosecutor's logic seems without fault, and as far as Blackquill can see there is only one conclusion it can lead to. "This would mean that when the culprit came in the courthouse with the poison they were planning on getting in my office to poison the bottles. That must have been the plan. For some reason, they thought they'd be able to get inside. But they clearly couldn't, and they poisoned the bottle they knew Gumshoe was bringing over for me when they got a chance. It was a quick back-up plan and likely not so thought out, considering that I wasn't bound to drink from that one bottle any time soon. It would also mean that this person doesn't _usually_ have access to the office: they wouldn't have used all the poison on one bottle if they had a chance to sneak in my office tomorrow or the day after that as well. They would have waited for another chance."

"Those are the same conclusions I have drawn, yes," Edgeworth concedes. "If we keep pursuing this line of logic, it's obvious that the one thing we need to figure out is, what would allow someone who's not supposed to in your office one time, and one time only in the near future?"

Blackquill frowns and reaches to rub his chin in thought. "Aside from myself and Detective Gumshoe, the only ones to hold my office's key are the building's security guard and the assigned cleaner. However, both would be able to access at any given time. They had no reason to resort to such a lousy back-up plan. What was different about yesterday, then?"

"That's what I hope we'll be able to find out soon," Edgeworth says. "Detective Gumshoe should report soon. I'd be grateful if you refrained from, as you put it, cutting him down in my office."

A smirk curls Blackquill's lips. "I'll do my best. If I may ask-"

A knock on the door cuts him off, and as Edgeworth calls out for whoever knocked to come in the door opens to reveal a rather nervous-looking officer. "I apologize for the interruption, but Prosecutor Blackquill asked to be kept informed, and... and we just got a call from the hospital," he says, and for one moment Blackquill is almost certain his heart has stopped, turning to lead in his chest.

_We're doing our best to help, but there are limits to what we can do._

_He's not out of danger yet. The fact he lived through the night means he has a chance at survival – but it's still not_ likely.

Is this it, Blackquill wonders – has the Phantom drawn his last breath while he was away, a nameless ghost leaving behind nothing but an empty shell on a hospital bed and secrets that will never be spoken?

"What did they say?" he hears himself asking, his voice impossibly calm, impossibly collected.

The answer is not the one he feared.

"They say there have been developments," the officer says. "That the worst seems to be over, and he may even be about to awaken."

He's barely even done speaking when Blackquill stands and reaches for his coat. "I'll be going, sir," he tells Edgeworth. It's not a request, there is no explanation on why would he bother to go and the Chief Prosecutor could forbid him to leave the office if so he wished... but he doesn't.

"Very well. We'll contact you as soon as we have more clues on the poisoner's identity," is all he says before dismissing him with a gesture of his hand.

Blackquill is out of the door before that hand is even down.


	9. Awake

"Awake?"

Blackquill's voice feels alien to his own ears as he speaks that one simple word as though it's a foreign term whose meaning he doesn't fully comprehend. Indeed, his mind does struggle with the notion the Phantom, despite being almost in the grasp of death just the previous day and barely still alive that very same morning, is now out of danger and _awake_.

The doctor gives a tired, but satisfied smile. "It was unexpected, I must admit. Even when he passed the night and we were willing to admit there may be a chance, we didn't expect him to awaken – and this soon, either. A rather sudden awakening, too; I wouldn't say he woke up with a start, but it was close enough. He gave a couple of nurses a bit of a scare."

"Is it possible to speak with him?"

A chuckle. "Unless you expect him to be able to talk with a tube down his throat, no. We need to check a few things before it's safe to remove that support; besides, the fact he's conscious doesn't mean he's able to carry a conversation just yet. Later, perhaps – but you shouldn't expect anything too coherent from him."

Blackquill nods, feeling a bit like a fool for even asking. "I understand. Is it possible to see him?"

"From behind the window only. A doctor is in to gauge his reactions to stimulus."

"It's fine."

"Very well. This way."

There isn't much to see, truth to be told: the Phantom is still restrained to the bed, tubes and wires still everywhere – but now the bed's head post is raised slightly to put the Phantom in a semi-sitting position and his eyes are open, though he narrows them when the doctor inside directs a flashlight at them. And, most of all, a hint of color seems to have returned to his face.

He doesn't see him, and Blackquill moves away from the window before he can. "Very well. I'll return later," is all he says before leaving, not waiting for a reply. Only when he's outside he leans against a wall and finally allows himself to feel relief.

Not that his moment of peace lasts for long, because almost as soon as he's straightened himself his cell phone rings. He's not too surprised to see the call comes from Athena.

"So, how is it going?" she asks as soon as he takes the call, no even wasting time on greeting. "Apollo told me that Mr. Wright told him that Mr. Edgeworth told him the Phantom is out of danger. You're at the hospital, right?"

Blackquill sighs. "I see Mr. Edgeworth saw fit keeping everyone informed. Did he also tell you I was here?"

"Nope. I figured that out on my own. You're getting predictable, Simon. So, is he really out of danger?"

Blackquill chooses to ignore her jab. "Yes, he is. He even awoke while I was on my way here, though the doctors are not done checking on him yet. I'll be back later on," he adds. "There is a strong possibility that the one responsible with the poisoning has ties to a mole in the Interpol, and we need to know who this mole is. It has to be me to ask – the Phantom made it clear he won't share anything with anyone else directly," he adds. That's absolutely true and the statement is not meant to be an excuse, but in that moment he's acutely aware of how much it sounds like one.

If Athena thinks it is, though, she doesn't show it. "Oh, okay. Let me know how it went. Oh, and Mr. Wright and I are working on Aura's appeal! We're pretty sure we can get another couple of years off her back. We're going to discuss it with her one of these days. Want to come along?"

Blackquill smiles faintly. "Of course. I am once again in your debt," he adds. He truly is grateful: things are still awkward between her and Aura – neither can just ignore the fact Aura believed her to be guilty all those years, blamed her for his imprisonment and hated her more than anyone else in the world – but Athena is still helping with the appeals. Blackquill wonders if she still feels guilty for failing to testify convincingly as a child, failing to remember seeing her mother's murderer and even wounding him. It was not her fault; she was only a traumatized child, and she knows it... yet he can tell that, deep down, she still feels like he failed him – and, by extension, like she failed Aura.

He can only hope time will change that, too. Aura is trying to reach out as well, if in her own callous way, and there is a chance the fact not even she blames her for anything will finally convince Athena that there was truly nothing more than she could do. Even if she testified properly, how seriously would he confession have been taken against his full confession?

"Hey, don't mention it. You got me in your debt first anyway, so I've got to even things out," she points out, and he wonders if she just has to turn everything in a competition.

"I won't argue, then. I only have one thing to ask-"

"Don't mention the Phantom in front of her," she cuts him off. "Sure thing. I don't want the poor guard in the room with Aura to get hurt," she adds, and Blackquill gives his first real chuckle in quite a while.

* * *

Athena knows something is up when she steps in the police station to find utter chaos.

She and Apollo were simply supposed to look around for information about a case and try finding out something about any 'proof' the prosecution seems to have against their client, but it's clear form the start that there won't be much of a chance to talk, not today: the place is an unusual blur of activity, and Athena can sense right away all the tension, worry and fear in the air.

"Hey, I'm sorry... sorry... hey, what's going on?" Apollo asks, trying – and failing – to get an officer to stop long enough to ask.

"It must be something big," Athena says with a frown, which melts when she spots a familiar face not too far away. "Detective Gumshoe!" she calls out, waving. Now there's someone she knows they can get an answer from.

And, sure enough, Gumshoe is nowhere as buttoned up as the others. "Oh, it's you kids!" he says, walking up to them, but even his smile seems somewhat tired.

Apollo sighs. "He'll never stop calling us 'kids', will he?" he mutters as Gumshoe walks up to them.

"Look, I don't think this is a good moment," Gumshoe says. "Everything is kind of a mess, and... and you should come back later, okay? Or tomorrow."

"But what happened?" Athena asks, frowning. "It must be something pretty bad to cause all this mess."

Gumshoe's smile fades and he looks down. "Well, we... lost a few agents today. There was a bomb," he says unhappily. Athena winces, feeling suddenly cold, and shares a glance with Apollo before he speaks.

"A bomb? Where?" he asks. "It, uh... wasn't in a courtroom _again_, was it?"

"Uh? No, not this time. It was... well, the police tracked down a suspect for the attempt at poisoning Prosecutor Blackquill. Some guy who worked at the courthouse as a cleaner – he was supposed to cover for a sick colleague this morning and clean Prosecutor Blackquill's office, but then the usual cleaner felt better and came to work anyway, so he didn't. Mr. Edgeworth thought he was likely to be the culprit, and as it happens he didn't show for work this morning. Some officers went to his place to talk to him, seize him if they had to, but then there was an explosion right when they were forcing the door open. We're not sure what happened yet – only that a few officers died. No one is going in the apartment to see if the guy is still in before the Bomb Disposal Squad has checked the place first."

The thought of the way those officers just died for simply doing their job makes Athena feel terrible. "That's horrible! I hope you catch him. I'd love to give him a lesson myself," she snarls, causing Apollo to look at her somewhat worriedly.

"Hey, easy there. I'm sure they'll get him. No need to get worked up."

"But...!"

"Besides," Apollo adds, cutting her off, "we have a case to work on now. We'll catch up with this later, okay? Out client's counting on us now."

She has to admit that Apollo has a point: the trial is tomorrow, and no bomb in anyone's house nor anyone's death in the explosion is going to change that. They have to focus on the trial, save their client and let the police work on this case. "You're right," she finally admits. "Let us know if anything comes up, okay? Or, well, let Prosecutor Blackquill know so that he can let us know. You know."

The mention of Prosecutor Blackquill makes Gumshoe look, if possible, even more miserable. "I still can't believe I almost got him killed, pal," he says, shoulders dropping. "I just left that bottle alone for one minute...!"

Athena forces herself to smile. "Hey, it's fine! I mean, no one died in the end, and Simon is okay. He knows it was just a mistake. He's not angry at you," she adds, pretending not to notice Apollo's arched brow and hoping she'll be able to talk Simon out of his idea of giving the poor guy hell. It was one small oversight, after all, and it's not like he could imagine someone was just waiting for a chance to put poison in that bottle.

"He isn't? Oh, good!" Gumshoe smiles as though a weight was just lifted from him. "That's a relief, pal. Prosecutor Blackquill can be kinda scary."

"Kinda?" Apollo mutters, and Athena takes a mental note to do her best so that Simon won't be _too_ harsh on the poor guy. After all, she muses, the fact the Phantom is now out of danger should do something too soothe his anger... or so she hopes.

* * *

"So our poisoner is dead," Blackquill says, keeping his voice low so that no one in the waiting room hears him. He doesn't really feel like sharing details of a criminal investigations with a bunch of children waiting to see their grandfather.

"Yes," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth says from the other side of the line. "When the Bomb Disposal Squad went in there were no more bombs, but they found his body under the rubble. It wasn't the explosion to kill him, though – he was stabbed in the chest. Just one strike in the heart."

"Whoever killed him knew what they were doing. A professional, I'd wager."

"That's very much likely. According to the first autopsy report, our poisoner has been dead since last night; it's possible the organization decided to take him out when they realized we were closing down on him. He can't have been someone important if they decided to do so rather than aiding his escape. It was an execution, plain and simple."

Even though he knows the Chief Prosecutor can't see him, Blackquill finds himself nodding. "No wonder the Phantom was so terrified of them," he mutters. "What about the bomb?"

"It was almost certainly left by the killer. It seems it was set so that it would be activated by opening the door. The explosion happened exactly as the officers forced the door open after knocking and receiving no response."

Blackquill's gaze darkens at the thought of the three officers who lost their lives in the explosion. "If he was already dead, what was the point in with the bomb? Were they trying to erase evidence? Send a message?"

There is a long sigh from Edgeworth's part. "I can't quite say, but I fear it may have been both. Sadly, if there _was_ any kind of proof in the apartment, the bomb took care of it. I doubt we'll find anything. They had all the time they needed to take away any possible proof they couldn't expect to be destroyed in the explosion."

"What about the bomb? Perhaps examining its remains could give us some information."

"What is left of the bomb has already been collected. It's being brought to prison as we speak."

Blackquill blinks. "In prison?" he repeats. Why would they bring the bomb pieces there of all places?

"Yes. I gave a special permit to let Officer Tonate examine them."

A brief chuckle leaves Blackquill before he can even think of stopping himself. Somehow, that's wonderfully ironic. "You seem to be making a habit out of giving permits to convicted murderers," he says.

Edgeworth gives a small, uncharacteristic snort. "It's not something I was glad to do, believe me. Unlike you, that man did commit the crime he was charged of. But according to the leader of the Bomb Disposal Squad, Ted Tonate is _still_ the main expert at hand; he should be able to identify the kind of bomb and notice anything relevant by just taking a look at the pieces."

"In exchange of a lighter sentence, I suppose."

"Yes. It hardly changes much, though: the fact he agreed to testify against the Phantom about the courtroom bombing already granted him some leniency. That, along with the fact Candice Arme's murder was not premeditated, will spare the death penalty."

"Hmph. A coward's bargain."

"Not all men are as willing to face death as you are, Prosecutor Blackquill."

Blackquill chuckles. "True enough. Is there anything new about the possibility of a mole in the Interpol?"

"I have little news, I'm afraid. We're having some... difficulties with the Interpol as a whole right now, and Lang wouldn't be able to give me much information directly without displeasing someone."

"I take it he found a way to let you know indirectly," Blackquill points out, causing Edgeworth to chuckle.

"True. He shared some information with Prosecutor von Karma, who's currently working with the Interpol in Europe. She told me that he's closing down on a suspect, but they're rather high up the scale and it would be impossible to take further moves against them without proof... or at least someone's testimony."

"The _Phantom's_ testimony," Blackquill says. "If he knows who the mole in the Interpol is and gave us their name, then your friend would have some ground to stand on."

"Precisely. I don't expect him to be able to speak just yet, but you should ask him for that particular information as soon as he's able to give a coherent reply.

"I will. And, sir?"

"What is it?"

"You have my gratitude yet again," Blackquill says quietly. He knows that there is nothing forcing Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth to fight tooth and claw to keep the Phantom within their jurisdiction, that letting the Interpol deal with him would be so much easier for him – and yet he's doing everything in his power to allow him to get to the bottom of the abyss the Phantom is.

There is a moment of silence before Edgeworth speaks again. "You're quite welcome; you earned it. We wouldn't have caught the Phantom hadn't it been for you. Besides," he adds, "I know this is personal. I know all to well what betrayal feels like, when someone you trusted manipulated you all along. And I know that it only gets better when you get to the bottom of it all, and figure out what your path is going to be from that moment on. As I trust you'll do."

Blackquill nods, eyes narrowing. "Of course I will," is all he says before ending the call. He stares at the cell phone for a few moments before putting it away and leaning against the backrest with a sigh, closing his eyes.

He doesn't get more than a few moments of silence, though.

"Mr. Blackquill?"

Blackquill opens his eyes to see someone standing just a few steps from him – a nurse who's gesturing for him to follow. He stands, ignoring the somewhat fearful looks he gets from some of the children in the waiting room, and follows the nurse out of the door as they head to the intensive care unit.

"I take it it's now possible to talk with the Phantom?"

"Yes. You may speak to the patient, but don't expect too much. He'll likely be confused and may not recall a lot of things. If he shows any sign of distress, please leave him," she says, her voice flat and professional. "He may fall asleep at some point. That's perfectly normal. If he does you can stay, but please do not attempt to wake him up; simply leave him be. Is everything clear?"

"Yes," he says, and the nurse nods at him before going to fetch him the sterile garments he'll need.

* * *

The Phantom is still dreadfully pale, but the tube going down his throat is gone. His eyes open when the door closes behind Blackquill, and he turns his head to face him. His gaze is dim and somewhat unfocused at first, then Blackquill approaches and he can see those eyes – such a pale blue that they make him think of dirty ice – finally focusing on him as he sits beside the bed.

"Pros... pros... c'tor," he mumbles. Blackquill snorts and opens his mouth to tell him it's good to know he still remembers who he is, but words die in his throat when the Phantom smiles – a smile he knows well, and that does not belong to him, doesn't belong to _his_ face. "In j-justice we-"

"Silence," Blackquill snaps, a sudden coldness in his gut, and the Phantom does fall silent, brow furrowing slightly as though in surprise. Is it an act, Blackquill wonders, or has he truly reverted to his Fulbright persona? But why should he even put on an act like this? He has no reason to, none.

_He'll be confused and may not recall a lot of things._

Could it be that he doesn't remember he's been caught? Doesn't realize the act it over, that he knows who he is? Does he think he can still fool him?

Or is he so dazed that he truly believes, in this one moment, that he _is_ Detective Bobby Fulbright?

The Phantom's frown fades after a few moments, and his gaze moves to one of the monitors connected to him. "What... happened?"

"You were... you had an accident," Blackquill hears himself saying. "Nothing too serious. You'll be dismissed soon enough."

"Oh," the Phantom says, and leans his head back down. "Sorry I made you... made you worry."

Blackquill clenches his fists. A part of him wants to grab him and shake him, wants to scream for him to drop the act, drop the mask once and for all... but on the other hand he cannot force himself to move.

_If he shows any sign of distress, we'll have to ask you to leave him_.

"What makes you think I would be concerned?" he finally says, bitterness showing in his voice; he makes no attempt at concealing it. The Phantom doesn't seem to notice, though: his gaze moves to Blackquill's wrists.

"Where... where are the...?"

"Gone," Blackquill cuts him off, lifting his hands for him to see. "I was acquitted, Fool Bright. Don't you remember?"

The Phantom is quiet for a few moments, brow still furrowed, then he gives _that_ smile once again. "I... I knew it. I was right, wasn't I? I was... right to... never give up. In j-justice we trust," he adds, but the next moment that horribly familiar smile seems to fade and he frowns again. His eyes move from Blackquill to his own wrists, which are restrained to the bed with straps. "Why...?" he mumbles, feebly trying to wiggle his wrists free from the straps, and turns back to Blackquill as though asking for an explanation.

Because you're no Detective Fulbright, part of Blackquill wants to say, because you're a fake and a murderer. Still, what leaves his lips is quite different. "You were attached to several machines. We couldn't have you dislodge anything by moving while unconscious. Settle down," he says. The explanation seems to soothe the Phantom's confusion, but it doesn't stop him from trying to pull his right arm free.

"Please," he mumbles, "just for a minute."

Blackquill hesitates, but in the end he reaches down to open the strap: it's not like the Phantom is in any condition to cause trouble, after all, and he can strap his arm back down with no effort if need be.

The Phantom tries to lift his hand, but it falls back on the mattress. "Heavy," he mutters, sounding surprised.

"You're still weak," Blackquill says. The Phantom makes another attempt at lifting his hand, reaching out for him, and he almost manages to touch his face before his strength fails him and the hand falls, this time out of the mattress. It hangs in mid-air as the Phantom shuts his eyes.

"Heavy," he repeats weakly.

Blackquill's gaze falls on that hand, pale and weak. And yet it was the hand that took his mentor's life, the hand little Athena stabbed in panic; the scar that crosses its back is proof of that. Blackquill reaches inside himself for the anger that is there, the anger that ought to be there but isn't; there is only sorrow for what was lost, bitterness for what may have been and wasn't. And he feels tired, yes, so very tired; far too tired for anger to inflame him now.

_It is also the hand that knocked that poisoned glass from my own hands._

"Don't strain yourself," Blackquill finally says, and reaches to take the Phantom's hand. He means to place it back on the mattress and strap it down once more, but then the Phantom grips his hand back, if feebly, and the next moment their gazes meet and hold. "Fool Bright-" he starts, but he trails off when the Phantom speaks again. His gaze is unfocused once again, the smile has dimmed and his voice is no longer Fulbright's.

"Thanks for not... not giving up... on me," he slurs. Before Blackquill can say anything his eyes close, and his hand goes limp in his grasp.

He's fallen asleep, Blackquill realizes, just as the nurse said he might. For a few long moments he just stays still, staring down at the Phantom's pale face, warming his cold hand into both of his.

_Who spoke just now, Phantom? Was it you, whoever you are, or was it Fulbright?_

He keeps staring down at the Phantom as though looking for an answer there, but of course there is none. With a sigh, Blackquill finally puts his hand down and straps his wrist back in place before leaning back on his seat. When he speaks again it's to say something he knows he would never be able to tell the Phantom while he's awake, in his Fulbright persona or not, because even thinking it feels so unbearably _wrong._

"Thank you for saving my life."

* * *

The air vent is just big enough for them to go through, and filled with dust; the boy has to pause several times and press a hand on his nose and mouth to silence a sneeze, and so does Seymour behind him. Actually, Seymour has also been trying to yank him back from time to time, mumbling something on how they should just leave, but the boy ignores him and keeps going. He wants to see what's going on, and he will. If Seymour is too scared, he can just stay where he is and wait for him to be back.

But he keeps following him, if unwillingly, and before long they have reached the end of the air vent and are climbing down from it to the catwalk directly beneath it. The lights are on in there, making everything beneath their feet perfectly visible, and what's going on in the huge storage room right beneath their feet is not what the boy expected to see.

He expected to see some people stealing the copper stashed in the old warehouse – the copper that was supposed to be used for the works in the Burgundine Central Station next spring and that he and Seymour had planned on stealing bit by bit for a few bucks – but there is no copper at all in that one room. Or at least not that he can see. There are crates, though, crates everywhere, and several men are checking their contents. What is in there anyway?

Ignoring the tugging at his jacket – Seymour must want to go back, no doubt – the boy silently walks a bit further down the catwalk. He's not worried they may be spotted: they're rather high up, above even the lights, and none of those men has any reason to carefully look up. As long as they don't make noise, they'll be fine. The boy puts his hands on the catwalk's rail, looks down and strains his eyes to see just as one of the men checking a crate steps back, unknowingly revealing its content to him.

It's... bottles, it seems? Yes that's it: small, green bottles.

Well, the boy thinks, that's kind of a letdown. The whole situations seems to be straight out of some James Bond movie, so he almost expected something like, say, gold or diamonds or weapons. And instead it's just bottles. But bottles of what? He cannot tell. If only one of the guys down there would speak...!

As though to answer to his unexpressed question, one of the men beneath him does speak up, calling out for the men standing some distance away from them.

"All's fine. It's Whitecrystal oil alright," he says, and the men nod in satisfaction. A couple of them say something in a language the boy doesn't understand, but truth to be told he's not even trying to grasp the words. He knows what Whitecrystal oil is: a very expensive Cohdopian product, and one Cohdopia hasn't exported in Borginia – if anywhere – in a long time.

Suddenly, everything makes sense: for Whitercrystal oil to be there at all, it must have all been smuggled. No wonder those guys are keeping it in this old warehouse at the outskirts of the city, he muses, trying to count how many crates are there. They're many, _so_ many, and if they're all filled with Whitecrystal oil then he's standing right above a fortune. The boy grins, suddenly feeling excited. The hell with copper, this is so much better! They only need to stay where they are, silent and hidden, until the man are gone; there is no way they're bringing all the crates away anytime soon. As soon as they leave, they'll just climb down, grab as many bottles as they can carry and leave as well. They could sell them easily to the black market, and they're worth enough to grant them more money than either of them has ever handled before.

The grin still pasted on his face, the boy turns to Seymour to tell him – quietly, so that they won't be heard – what he's seen, but he pauses when he realizes he's pale, staring with wide eyes at something at the the very back of huge room. The boy follows his gaze, and suddenly feels like he's just swallowed ice.

There are more men standing there, their back against the wall, and they all have guns.

The sight is enough to make the boy's grin fade, the seriousness of their situation finally dawning on him. There are smuggling operations going on, the kind worth a lot of money, and if they were to spot them there is no doubt – none at all – that they would use those guns on them.

Suddenly, being on the catwalk doesn't make him feel so safe anymore.

"Let's go," Seymour whispers, gripping his arm. "Please...!"

"Yes," the boy replies, his own voice a whisper. "Let's go back to the-" he trails off with a gasp when Seymour's grip on his arm tightens and suddenly turns cold as ice. The boy turns to look at him, and his heart seems to skip a beat. It is Seymour standing beside him, but at the same time it's not. His skin is white as wax, his face and black hair matted with blood, and his eyes so dark he cannot tell pupils and irises apart. When he speaks again he's not bothering to keep his voice down, not even noticing the blood falling from his mouth onto the ground.

"Why," he rasps. "Why did you let me die?"

And then he's gone, everything is gone, and he's alone in the middle of a sea of darkness. The Phantom tries to reach out for the catwalk's rail, but his hands meet nothing, nothing at all. His legs feel suddenly too weak to support him, and he falls on his knees. His head is hurting horribly, _pounding_, and he reaches up to hold it with shaking hands. His skin feels cold and fake, as though he's once again wearing a mask.

"Who," he grits out. "Who am I?"

The answer comes from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, in a voice that he cannot recognize but still found dreadfully familiar, as though he heard it already a long time ago.

_No one._

"No," the Phantom chokes out. His fingernails scrape against fake skin, but the mask won't come off, as though fused with his true skin. A sob wracks his chest. "No, please, no!"

_No one._

"I... I was someone! _I was someone!_" he screams, something in his chest hurting so much he fears it may just break apart. He shuts his eyes and feels them prickling with tears."Please, tell me.. .a-a name, anything...!"

_NO ONE._

"Please! _Please_!"

And then the voice changes, turns into that of the boy – _Seymour_ – who had been with him.

_Why did you let me die?_

"I... I... what happened? What happened to me?"

_WHY DID YOU LET ME DIE?_

"I'm sorry I'm so sorry I don't know what happened, I don't know, please...!" he chokes back a sob, fists clenching on his hair – but it doesn't hurt, he doesn't even feel it, as though it's not even his own hair. "Please, let me out of here!" he begs, and waits for that voice to speak again, for a boy's voice to ask once more why did he let him die. But the voice he hears next is different, as are the words it speaks.

_Fool Bright._

The Phantom's breath hitches in his throat, his heart jumping in his chest. "Blackquill?" he calls out, daring to open his eyes. Darkness is still all around him, but now he feels a little less cold, and there is some light in the distance – weak and far away at first, but growing stronger and closer.

_Thank you for saving my life._

Then the light is on him, white and blinding, and it feels as though a warm blanket was wrapped around him. The Phantom closes his eyes against the glare, and waits for several moments before opening them again...

… and, when he does, he's not too surprised to see Blackquill's face hovering above him.

"Fool Bright," Blackquill calls out, as though surprised to see him, and for a moment the Phantom cannot tell if he feels like laughing or crying.

Then he settles for both.

* * *

It takes some time for the Phantom to calm down.

He's not especially loud – his laugh is weak and low, only occasionally turning into sobs, and the tears that trickle from the corner of his eyes are silent – but the way he the way he trembles worries Blackquill to the point that he almost stands and leaves to call for a doctor.

He doesn't do so because the moment he stands the Phantom speaks up, his voice hoarse. "No, don't. Please," he manages, causing Blackquill to freeze for a moment. He looks down at the pitiful display for a few moments before he sits down again. His hand reaches to rest on the back of the Phantom's restrained one.

"Control yourself, then. If you can't do that, I will have to call for someone."

The Phantom nods and, to his credit, he does manage to get a hold of himself. In a couple of minutes he's remarkably calmer and drawing in long, deep breaths. His eyes open again, and his gaze focuses on him. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he says a little hoarsely. "May I... ask you to forget all about the past few minutes?"

Blackquill has to hold back a sigh of relief at the realization that this time the Phantom is being himself, however little _self_ he has. No Fulbright persona, no ridiculous grins and babbling about justice. It is a relief, and Blackquill briefly wonders when was it that dealing with the Phantom became easier than dealing with Fulbright's ghost. "I'll do us both a favor and forget all about your previous performance as well," Blackquill mutters. A part of him isn't _too_ surprised by the confused frown that creases the Phantom's brow.

"My... previous performance?"

He doesn't remember, Blackquill thinks. He doesn't remember his relapse, he doesn't remember falling back into Bobby Fulbright's skin for a few minutes before he lost consciousness once again, slipping into hell knows what dreams. And it's good, it makes everything easier for both, so Blackquill won't remind him.

"Never mind. How are you feeling?"

The Phantom doesn't reply right away: he simply frowns, gaze somewhat unfocused, as though he's trying to remember something. "Poison," he finally speaks slowly. "The brandy was... poisoned, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was poisoned with Atroquinine."

That causes the Phantom to blink up at him. "Atroquinine? How the hell am I still alive?"

"The poison was inside one bottle only, and I took the glass from you before you could do anything more than wetting your lips. Even so, it almost killed you. You seem to have a knack for escaping death. It's the third assassination attempt you survive in little over two months, although this one was not meant for you."

"I take it _you_ were the target."

"Yes. And it nearly succeeded, as much as I hate to admit it," Blackquill adds.

The Phantom frowns once more, and Blackquill can tell he's trying to remember. The way he looks back up at him is enough to tell him he remembered. "The glass," he says. "I... managed to knock it off, didn't I?"

"You did. It seems that we ended up saving each other's lives for the second time," he muses, only to realize that the Phantom isn't listening. He's looking at the ceiling, mumbling something. His voice is so low that Blackquill can tell he's speaking only because he's moving his lips. "What is it?"

"What I... heard. It is true, then," the Phantom says, causing Blackquill to frown.

"What you heard?"

"Did you say...?" the Phantom starts, then he pauses. There is a moment of hesitation as their gazes meet, and in the end he just shakes his head. "Never mind. I... I suppose I dreamed. But not all of it was a dream. It was... a memory, too, at least up to a point. I'm almost certain it was," he adds. "If it all was real, then there is more information. I have someone's first name now; not mine, but... someone's. And the name of a city – Borginia's capital. I must have lived there."

That is enough to grab Blackquill's attention, whatever the Phantom may have chosen not to tell him entirely forgotten. If what he says is true, they may be able to narrow the field by far and get closer to a breakthrough. "Very well. I'll listen. But first, I need some specific information from you."

"What kind of information?"

"We believe the attempt at killing me may have been part of a plan to get you in the Interpol's custody so that a mole they have there may kill you. The existence of this mole has not been proven so far, though. I want to know if to your knowledge your organization _does_ have a mole in the Interpol, and if so what their name is."

The Phantom doesn't need a moment to think about it, apparently, and doesn't hesitate at all before telling him. "Yes, they do have one. He's called Warren Peace . He managed to get quite high up their ranks."

"Would you testify as much to the police? Only this. Everything else you'll tell me alone, as agreed."

Again, the Phantom shows no hesitation. "Yes."

That's what Blackquill wanted to hear. He leans back again his seat and nods. "Very well. We'll get to this later. Now tell me everything you remembered, and hold nothing back."

The Phantom doesn't need to be told twice.


	10. Long Way Down

"Mr. Warren Peace has already been arrested, and Agent Lang is making sure he's given no chance to escape. The Phantom's testimony to the police seems solid enough," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth is saying, flipping through a rather voluminous report's pages. "He was able to give plenty of details the Interpol is verifying as we speak. Should they turn out to be correct, then the Phantom's word will be enough for a trial. With Ms. von Karma as the prosecutor, there is little doubt the mole will be found guilty."

Blackquill nods. "One threat removed, then."

"There are still more out there than I'd like, but yes, it is a start. Perhaps he'll cooperate, tell us who killed our poisoner and set up the bomb to spare himself an extremely severe punishment," Edgeworth concedes. "Now, about your request to contact Borginian authorities, I'm afraid may take some time. If we had an exact idea of what we're exactly looking for it would be one thing, but all we know is that something involving two boys may have happened approximately twenty-six years ago in Borginia's capital. It isn't much to go by. And, aggravatingly enough, they won't be giving much priority to such a request coming from a prosecutor from a foreign country."

Edgeworth's words are far from unexpected: Blackquill has known from the start this wouldn't be easy. "I can imagine. However, Athena Cykes claimed she knows a way to get them to cooperate faster. I have no clue what it may possibly be about, but I suppose letting her try won't hurt any-" he says, but is cut off by a yelp of pain coming from outside the door.

"You kicked me!"

"Hey, you had it coming! Now let me through!" a voice that's unmistakably Athena's follows.

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. "It seems that someone did indeed get hurt. May I ask you to go and let her in before paramedics are needed?" he asks, and Blackquill is up before he can even finish the sentence.

As it turns out, Athena was either entirely oblivious of the fact only prosecutors are allowed there or just didn't care, and one of the bailiffs' attempt to stop her by grabbing her shoulder resulted with her retaliating with a kick in the shins. So much for the little girl who'd happily let herself be picked up, Blackquill muses as she grabs her arm and pulls her toward the door of the Chief Prosecutor's office.

"Are you trying to get yourself charged with assault?" he snarls, shutting the door behind them.

Athena shrugs and crosses her arms. "Hey, he was the first one to get physical."

"He was doing his duty. You're not supposed to be here without an appointment," Blackquill points out, but Athena has already stopped paying attention to what he's saying and is waving at the Chief Prosecutor.

"Hello, Mr. Edgeworth! Mr. Wright wanted me to tell you Trucy's next magic show is this Thursday. You promised to come. Ah, and don't bring your badge with you. Trucy may try to make it disappear and things refuse to reappear sometimes. It took her half a day to get Apollo's badge back out of her panties once."

Edgeworth's lips curl into a smile for just a moment before he nods. "Duly noted. I should hope, though, this is not the reason why you came here uninvited and assaulted one of the bailiffs in the process."

Athena grins somewhat sheepishly. "Not really, no. I wanted to tell you that there are some news with Borginia. They found something that may fit the story the Phantom told Simon, and should send a transcript of the case files as soon as they're done translating."

There is a moment of silence as both Edgeworth and Blackquill only stare at her; Blackquill can tell Edgeworth is every bit as surprised as himself. "How did you manage to get information this quickly?" Blackquill finally asks. "Did you happen to live in Borginia as well? Do you know someone there?"

Athena shrugs. "Yes, but no. As in, yes, I stayed there for a bit, but not much. And I know a few people, but none of them could help. Also, my Borginian sucks. But Apollo could help."

"Justice? Does he have contacts in Borginia?"

"Yup, a singer. She was involved in some trial once, and she writes to him and Trucy from time to time."

Blackquill can feel the beginnings of what's threatening to turn in a headache. "How could a _singer_ help?"

"Hey, she's famous in Borginia. Like, _really_ famous. Her music is great, so no wonder – just ask Prosecutor Gavin, he'll fall over himself to praise her. Anyway," she adds quickly, maybe noticing Blackquill's unimpressed expression, "since she's famous and all, she just had to ask and someone got to work. They looked into cold cases and found an unsolved incident that may be relevant. They say several elements fit – two boys, the age was what you said, the year it happened fits, and it happened in the capital. And a name is the same as the boy the Phantom remembered, too! Also, they were shot in the head. Who does it remind you of?" she adds, tapping her forehead in the place where the Phantom's bullet scar is.

Blackquill stares at her for another moment, then he smiles. "It seems that Lady Luck may be on our side, after all," he says, a part of him daring to hope they would truly turn out to be on the right track, that the Phantom may truly be close to gaining a name for himself.

Because if he _does_, then perhaps he won't find himself calling him 'Fool Bright' anymore.

* * *

While Athena is no big fan of hospitals and clinics, she has to admit that the Hickfield clinic looks a lot less intimidating than the general hospital. Or maybe, she reasons as she steps inside the elevator along with Simon, she only feels this way because she's not feeling the dread she felt when she ran to the hospital thinking that Simon had been poisoned. This time it isn't nearly as bad: they're there to see a man on the way to recovery... though what they're going to have to tell him is far from pleasant.

Yes, it's a step forward – _plenty_ of steps forward, really – but it's still not a nice tale, and the very thing the Phantom wishes to know the most is still missing from it, along with several other pieces of the puzzle.

"I guess he's feeling a lot better already if they transferred him to this clinic," she says, more to break the silence than because she feels like pointing out the obvious. Simon gives an absent-minded hum, his eyes still fixed on the folders in his hands. Athena bites her lower lip.

"How do you think he's going to take this?"

Simon puts the folder under his arms and looks ahead, at the elevator's door. "It's hard to tell. After what he dreamed – what he remembered – I doubt he'll be expecting anything but a gruesome story, but he'll likely be frustrated when he realizes we're still lacking what he seeks," he says. "I suppose that all we can do about it is using the Mood Matrix on him again once he's recovered enough. There is a gap between the part where his memory ends and the aftermath this report speaks of. We may find out more by filling it."

Athena has to admit that's a good point, but before she can voice her agreement the elevator stops and the door slides open. The room the Phantom is in is easy to tell apart, being the only one with two officers standing on either side. They both stand a little straighter when they walk up to them.

"We're here to see the Phantom," Simon says.

"Uh... there is a doctor in, Prosecutor. Maybe you should wait-"

"Silence," Simon orders, and the man immediately shuts his mouth and steps aside. Athena kind of pities him, but he can understand why Simon wants to get what they're there for over with, so she just gives an encouraging smile to the officer and follows him inside.

The Phantom seems to be doing a lot better, no longer looking like a corpse and with no tubes down his throat and nose as he rests in the bed he's restrained on... or at least the bed he _should_ be restrained to. Both his arms are free and he's half-sitting, chewing on something with clear satisfaction. It's an odd sight, but it's no odder than the doctor standing a few steps from the bed: a middle-aged man with weird pink air who keeps scratching himself as though he's flea-ridden.

"Are _you_ the doctor?" Simon asks, and it doesn't take Athena's hearing to tell he's taken aback. Then his eyes shift to the Phantom. "What are you doing without restraints?" Simon snaps, but before he can say anything else the doctor speaks.

"Hmm, yes... I'm Director Hickfield, yes... Are you here to visit the patient? Hmm... I see..."

Simon frowns. "The clinic's director?" he asks, sounding – if possible – even more skeptical.

"Obviously not," the Phantom says with a shrug, through a mouthful of... whatever he's eating. "If this man is a doctor, then I'm Mata Hari. Worst spy that ever existed, by the way. Speaking of 'worst', the officers let this 'doctor' in here twice. Congratulations for the security, it certainly makes me feel so very safe. Not that it's all bad, since he was nice enough to to untie me and get me a snack from the vending machines. It turns out I have a thing for liquorice strings."

Simon glares at him and seems about to say something, but he's cut off when 'Director Hickfield' speaks again, causing Athena to recoil.

"Oooh, hello, pretty lady," he says, and Athena is less than impressed by the the fact he's leering at her, holding out a hand as if to touch her. "Hmm, yes... you look sick... hmm... let me take a look at- yowch!" he yelp when Simon grabs his arm less than gently, twists it and drags him to the door. "Wait! I have yet to visit-!"

"_Silence_," Simon snarls, then he just slams the door open and throws him out before glaring at the two rather confused officers outside. "And you truly believe this is a doctor? Imbeciles. Call the department and have someone else sent here – you're not fit to keep watch on a plant," he snarls, then the door slams shut and the turns back to the Phantom. Who, on the other hand, is still leaning back and bringing another liquorice string to his mouth. "You must be restrained. Put your hands back in place," he says coldly, causing the Phantom to sigh.

"Oh, allow me a break. I spent a week in bed, eating hospital slop and with a catheter in," he says through a mouthful of liquorice.

Simon snorts. "You nearly crossed the Styx, Phantom. Are you truly complaining of such trivial matters after making it back from its banks?"

"We'll talk about this again when you're the one with a tube up the urethra," the Phantom says drily.

"Put your hands down _now,_" Simon repeats, more than a little threateningly. Athena can see where he's coming from: the Phantom has proved himself to be unstable in several occasions, and they have no way to predict whether or not what they're going to tell him will bring up any memories... and how he may react to them. It's much safer if he's bound; safer for them, and for _him_.

The Phantom rolls his eyes, but he does as he's told. Simon puts the folder he's been holding on the nightstand so that he can use his hands to bound his wrists again, and Athena can see the Phantom's gaze shifting to the folder as though he's just now noticed it. "Have found anything?" he asks very quietly, just as Simon finishes binding his right wrist and steps back.

"As a matter of fact, we did," he says, and reaches to take the folder and open it. "Borginian authorities dug up a very old case that has quite a few details in common with what we gathered so far. What I have here is a summary of what all the reports say."

Athena can hear clearly the Phantom's heart speeding up for a few moments before he regains full control and the heartbeat slows back to normal. The level of control he has on himself when he's lucid is amazing, she muses – but all that control is harder and harder for him to maintain, and slips away quicker and quicker.

"What does it say?" he asks, gaze shifting from Simon to the folder and then back to Simon. He doesn't have to wait for long: Simon begins reading the next moment.

"On December 28, 2001, two boys around fifteen years of age were found in a ditch at the outskirts of Borginia's capital. Both had been shot in the head, though the lack of blood around them made it obvious that the actual scene of the crime was somewhere else; however, it was never found. One of the boys, identified as an orphan called Seymour Blaxton due to a library card he had on him, was declared dead at the scene. He had several broken bones in addition to the fatal shot in the head. The other boy, who had also a wound on his left leg and a broken arm, was not identified and is referred to with the monicker of 'Jean Dupont' in both police and medical reports; their own version of 'John Doe', it appears," he adds, his lips twisting in a faint smirk at the irony.

The Phantom says nothing: he keeps silent, his expression blank, waiting for him to continue. And yet Athena can once again hear his heart rate changing, sense the dismay he feels as the implications of what he just heard sinks in – that 'Jean Dupont' was _him_, that he still has no name, that the closest they found to one is a monicker for unidentified people.

Simon, who paused for a moment to gauge his reaction, looks back at the sheet in the folder and resumes reading. "This 'Jean' was still alive albeit in critical condition and was rushed to the nearest hospital. Some rather advanced brain surgery was needed to save his life, but it was successful and he pulled through. Meanwhile, no one reclaimed him and no one whose description even vaguely fit him was reported missing; it was soon assumed he was one of the numerous war orphans who lived on the streets, much like the other victim. The police waited until he was able to speak again to interrogate him about what happened – but when he began talking again, it became clear the boy remembered nothing. The hospital records speak of a complete memory loss of all events prior to his awakening. The boy could not recall even his own name, and further investigation led to nothing," Blackquill adds, and looks back up from the folder.

For several moments, the Phantom says nothing: he only stares at Blackquill, and then turns to Athena. A horribly fake smirk curls his lips. "Are you listening to the voice of my heart, Cykes?" he asks, his voice flat. "Do tell me, what do you hear? Because I... I don't know what it is. I don't _know_."

His flat voice almost cracks at the end, and Athena can see why: what the Phantom's heart is crying is a whirlwind of contrasting emotion, so overwhelming it's no wonder at all he cannot understand. It's easy to to sense all of them even without the Mood Matrix to help. "You're surprised, and glad. You didn't expect to come this far. You're glad to know more. But you're also angry. We don't have a name yet, and there seems to be a dead end ahead. And you're sad. I think... he was your friend, after all," she adds, suddenly feeling so horribly sorry for that Seymour, for that long-dead boy she only knows of through the Phantom's muddy memories.

The Phantom gives a low, throaty chuckle. "My friend? No anymore. I didn't even remember him until these dreams started."

Athena shakes her head. "The heart never really forgets."

"_Heart_ is not where memories are stored, Cykes," the Phantom spits. "Pumping blood is its only use."

"I was speaking _figuratively_," Athena points out, crossing her arms, then makes an effort to soften her voice. "You did remember him eventually, didn't you? It means the memory was there. _He_ was there, all along. Just buried deep within. And if the memory never truly faded, then what you felt for him didn't, either. That's why the sadness is _there_."

For a few moments the Phantom only stares at her, his expression – very much unlike his heart – absolutely unreadable. Then he turns to look back up at Simon, who has listened to their exchange in silence.

"Are you absolutely certain that other boy was me? It may have been... someone else," he says. It's unlikely – too many details fit, too many to be a coincidence – but not impossible.

Then again, they have some further proof Simon has yet to tell him about.

"I'm rather sure, especially since there are more elements that fit," he says, and pulls a second sheet out of the folder. "We received a few of the reports from a psychologist who visited 'Jean' through his stay in the hospital. She noted a distinct lack of emotional response to his situation, even to the fact he couldn't recall who he was, and a lack of empathy whenever the boy who was found dead with him was mentioned. A consequence of the brain trauma, most likely. His behavior would sometimes change drastically depending on who he was dealing with; she noted it was as though he acted different parts on a whim, with no apparent effort, but wouldn't stick to any in particular for long. He was described as 'unpredictable', and attempts at getting a clear picture of his personality failed. The visits were cut short, though."

The Phantom draws in a deep breath. "Why? What happened to him?" he asks, and it doesn't escape Athena how he has yet to entirely accept it's him they're talking about: he would have said 'what happened to _me_' otherwise.

If Simon noticed – but of course he did, it's such an obvious thing! – he doesn't show it, and just replies to the question. "A few months later after being found, having almost entirely recovered, 'Jean Dupont' vanished from the hospital. His room's window was open, and since it could only be opened from the inside local authorities were led to believe he left on his own will. A search was started immediately, but he was never found again. Vanished like a ghost at the break of dawn," Simon adds with a chuckle. "It appears you were good at disappearing even back then. Or do you still think that this was not you, that it's all a coincidence, a jest of fate?" he adds, and before the Phantom can say anything he pulls something else out of the folder – two small photographs, one taken by the police and one by a doctor in the hospital 'Jean Dupont' was brought in.

Athena isn't looking at them now, her eyes fixed on the Phantom, but she did look at them first. Neither is a pretty sight. One shows the dead body of a boy with face and black hair matted with blood, a gaping hole in his forehead and wide open, glassy gray eyes; Seymour Blaxton's death was no a pleasant one. The other picture is somewhat less gruesome, for the subject's head is covered in clean bandages that barely let a few wisps of blond hair show, but there is something unnerving in the flat expression on that face, in those pale blue eyes staring at nothing in particular.

And now those same eyes are staring down at the pictures Simon silently put down on the Phantom's lap.

"It is you," Simon says quietly. "Either that, or the resemblance is uncanny. They took fingerprints in the hospital, but of course those are of no use since you have long since burned them off your fingertips. But to clear all doubt, tell me – is the other boy the one you remembered about? The one you saw in your dream?"

The Phantom stiffens for a moment before he lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the pictures. "Yes," he finally says. "Yes, it's him."

"Are you certain?"

The Phantom turns away from the pictures and stares at the wall. "Yes," he says flatly.

Simon nods, and picks up the pictures to slide them back in the folder. "Very well. It's safe to say we've come a long way."

The Phantom gives a humorless chuckle. "Such a long way, and I still know _nothing_. Such a long way to find out I was a nobody even then. Such a long way to find out I was a _John Doe_. Yes, we have come a long way. The long way around and then back to the start," he adds bitterly.

"That's not true," Athena says, crossing her arms. She can see just why the Phantom is so frustrated – she's certain she'd be, too, in his place – but now he's getting just annoying. She's not going to let him wave off all that they uncovered as _nothing_. "We know so much more than we did at the start! We know when you were born and where, we know more about who you were, and now we know what kind of accident took your memories and hindered your emotional spectrum. It's a lot, okay? And the more we know, the more we can find out. You need to remember more, that's all. There is a hole between your memory and what happened next, and you can never know what information retrieving the missing parts may give us. We'll get to work with the Mood Matrix as soon as you can leave the clinic. We're _so_ close. And besides," she adds, slamming a fist into her open hand, "if you dare give up now after all Simon and I had to do to get to this point, then I'll have to kick your into next Tuesday. Fair warning."

The Phantom turns to look at her, tilting his head on one side. "I killed your mother," he says, his voice flat, "and tried to have you convicted for a murder. Are you seriously telling me that _this_ would be the straw to break the camel's back?" he asks, and shakes his head without waiting for a reply. "I don't understand you, Cykes. I don't even understand why you're still trying to help now that I'm giving the information you want already. Blackquill..." he pauses, then turns to Simon – who's been listening to the whole exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he says quietly. "May I ask to be left alone with Miss Cykes for a few minutes?"

Simon hesitates, then looks at Athena. She nods, though not quite knowing what the Phantom may want to ask. "I'll be okay. I mean, he's restrained and all," she says, and she's relieved when Simon doesn't insist to stay and simply nods.

"I'll be outside. No mind games with her," he adds, looking down at the Phantom. "Although there is no doubt in my mind she wouldn't fall for any I still advice you not to even try, or your punishment-"

"... will be swift, yes," the Phantom says with a sigh, gaining himself a glare from Simon before he nods at Athena and leaves the room.

She draws in a deep breath and tries not to feel nervous once the door closes they're alone in the same room. She reaches up to toy with her earring as she speaks. "So, what is it?"

The Phantom stares back at her. "I don't understand," he says. "I don't understand... many things, I suppose, but what I want to know now is why you're even here. You don't have to be. Blackquill does, or so he thinks, because he gave me his precious _word_," the Phantom says, throwing up his hands as much as straps will allow him, which isn't much. Still, Athena is paying a lot of attention in such things – to his gestures, the tone of his voice, tastes and quirks that didn't belong to Fulbright and that were not there before. Small things that are extremely telling to her: they're small details that show a personality, a _self_ starting to come together... or starting to come _back_.

Unaware of her musing, the Phantom is still speaking.

"... but you never gave 'your word', as far as I can tell. Now that I'm giving the information you all wanted from me from the start, now that I lost the one bargaining chip I had, there is nothing forcing you to come back and use the Mood Matrix on me. There is nothing forcing you to _help_."

It is nothing Athena hasn't asked herself, and it's nothing she hasn't answered to; Simon asked her almost the same thing, too. "It was never just for the information. I wanted to know, true. I wanted some closure for my mother, and Clay, and Detective Fulbright. But I also want to know who you are, so that... so that I can give my mother's murderer a name," she finishes.

There is something else, too, but it's something she could only feel comfortable sharing with Simon and that she cannot bring herself to say before the Phantom. So she doesn't tell him what she told Simon as they both watched the him fighting for his life in the intensive care unit.

_I want to believe there may be something worth saving in that abyss he claims he is_.

And maybe, she thinks, maybe there is... is there? "Now that I answered, I have a question of my own," she hears herself saying. "I tried to ask once, but I put it the wrong way, I guess. I'll tell you what I think now, and I want you to answer either yes or no. That's it. A yes or a no will do."

The Phantom seems both curious and somewhat wary, as though he doesn't know what to make of her, but he nods. "Fair enough. What is it?"

There goes, Athena thinks, and drives in a deep breath. She doesn't have the magatama this time, but no matter: she has to try, at least. "When you tried to convict me for Clay's murder, you must have known there was a strong chance my mother's murder could be brought up again. You _must_ have. You knew Simon had confessed to the murder because he believed it may have been me. No, don't speak," she adds, causing the Phantom – who had opened his mouth as though to speak – to fall quiet. "Just answer to me: was your goal having me convicted for _both_ murders, and saving Simon from execution?"

The Phantom's frame stiffens. "I-"

"Yes or no," Athena cuts him off, her voice sharp. She'll take no other answer but a clear-cut one that leaves no room for mind games, no room for changes of subject or blurred lines. A yes or a no, and she'll know if he's lying: his heart will tell her.

And he must know, too, for he makes no attempt to lie. He looks down and speaks quietly, as though he fears Simon may be listening from outside, but his voice is still perfectly audible to her. "... yes."

She's not surprised: it's the answer she's expected for quite a while now. "I see," is what she finally says, her voice softening a little.

"Don't tell him," the Phantom says, still not looking up at her; a striking detail to her, for he used to have no trouble at all holding her gaze. He doesn't sound like he's pleading, but he's not too far away either. "Don't."

He already knows, Athena thinks, but she doesn't voice her thought. "I won't. But what were you planning to do if your plan worked and I was convicted in his place?" she asks. There is no point in asking why he wanted to save him: at this point it's clear enough that the Phantom had grown attached to Simon, whether or not he was aware of it.

He bites his lower lip. "We settled for 'yes or no' questions," he says tightly.

Well, Athena thinks, if he thought that was going to stop her he was so very much mistaken. "Were you planning to keep Fulbright's place? Keep the act up, keep working as his detective?"

_Did you ever wish you could _be_ Fulbright?_

"I... for a time," the Phantom says, his voice somewhat strained. He's trying and failing to regain full control of himself, and Athena means to keep pressing on before he has a chance to.

_Did you think that if you tried hard enough, kept the act up long enough, then you could truly _be_ him?_

"How long?"

"That's not-"

"Another year? Two? How long would you keep that mask up? How long would you have kept standing by Simon's side? How long would you-"

"_As long as it would be fit!"_ the Phantom snarls, causing Athena to trail off. Her heart jumps in her chest for a moment, but she refuses to let it show and just looks back at him in silence. He's the first one to turn away. "I don't know. Is this what you want to hear? I don't _know_," he adds, hanging his head as though he's just admitted to something shameful. "I rationalized. I told myself I had reasons. That I needed to find the psych profile, that I could keep a close eye on him and his investigation to make sure he didn't make it too close to the organization, that I could get important information from a position in the police. Was it all true? I suppose it was. But maybe I had also... grown to like it where I was. Maybe I would have kept finding excuses to postpone the day I'd shed Fulbright's mask and leave. Maybe I wouldn't have left, after all."

For a few moments Athena says nothing. There is something so incredibly sad about all of this, about how he would have been willing to live someone else's life because it was a _life_, so unlike the nothingness he came from. "It wouldn't have been real," she finally says softly. "It would have been a lie. Like this past year – only a lie."

The Phantom shakes his head, gaze still lowered. "Not all of it, no. Blackquill – he was real, like everyone else.I was... the only lie," he adds, and for a moment his voice trembles. He swallows and shuts his eyes, trying to regain control, and after drawing in a deep breath he finally looks back at her. Much to her relief, his eyes are dry. "You asked your questions and had your answers. Ask nothing more. Please."

Athena nods, fully aware that she's pushed him as far as he can go. She's rather amazed by the extent of the Phantom's admissions, how much he lowered his defenses and for how long. "Alright."

"Don't tell him about... about this."

"I won't," Athena promises, and she means it: she doesn't think telling Simon any of what she just heard would do him any good, not like this. If he's to know, he has to know it from the Phantom himself. It occurs to her that by opening up like this the Phantom gave her a potential weapon, knowledge she could hurt him with, and he's aware of it as he's aware of the fact there are very, very good reasons why she could want to hurt him.

But she won't do it, _can't_ do it; it's just not how her mind works. So in the end she just changes subject. "If we're done, then we should call Simon back in. He's probably chewing some officer's head off for mistaking that creep for a doctor. And we should decide when we should have the next session. "

The Phantom nods at her words, and looks away again. "You have my thanks," he says quietly.

Athena can't think of anything to say, but then again she doesn't think he expects an answer.

* * *

It takes almost a week for that session to happen; before then he needs to wait for the clinic to release him, and then he has to testify against Warren Peace to the police. Only then the session is finally allowed to take place.

As much as he's looked forward to it, when he finds himself sitting before Blackquill and Cykes once more – this time only shackled to the bolts on the table, as the authorities seem to have established he's not going to try eating them alive unless he's tied down so tightly he can't move an inch – the Phantom cannot tell whether he feels ready or not.

But that doesn't truly matter, does it? This must be done, and he must hope they'll uncover something this time, something that may give him a _name_. It's all he needs right now, all he wants, and he must be ready.

_I will not be afraid._

"Ready?" Cykes is asking, clearly unaware of his thoughts – or perhaps all too aware. Why shouldn't she be, perceptive as she is to the slightest chance in his heartbeat?

"Probably not entirely," the Phantom says, "but that's hardly a reason not to try."

As she nods and sets the Mood Matrix ready, the Phantom looks at Blackquill. With a stab of something uncomfortably close to nervousness, he finds himself hoping Cykes kept her word of telling him nothing of what she heard that day at the clinic. In hindsight, he knows he shouldn't have allowed himself to admit so much... but then again, what does he have left to lose? His dignity? He forfeited it in court, when he broke down utterly. And not Blackquill, certainly; he never really _had_ him to begin with.

_A lie, all of it_.

"How is the investigation going?" the Phantom asks, more to fill the moment of silence than because he truly cares. Blackquill smirks and reaches up to rub his chin.

"Rather well, I'd say. Mr. Peace tried to deny the accusations, but your testimony and further proof the investigation uncovered were more than enough to clip his wings. After a little... confrontation with Prosecutor von Karma, he agreed to cooperate. He gave us some rather interesting details, including the name of some other bad elements in the Interpol and the name of the man who killed the poisoner and set up the bomb in his apartment. He's being searched for as we speak, and I have no doubt he'll soon be caught."

He sounds perfectly normal, and the Phantom's worry Cykes may have told him everything goes down a notch. He's about to say something when Cykes speaks up.

"All set up. Ready when you are."

I'm not ready, a part of him wants to say, but he ignores it and forces himself to focus on what he dreamed as he lay in the hospital. He starts talking slowly, from the very start – from the moment he and that boy, Seymour, were walking on a catwalk in the dark with flashlights as their only source of light. He speaks of their banter, of everything he can recall either of them saying, and it doesn't take long for Cykes to find something.

"Here!" she exclaims, pointing at something on the screen. "Right here. When you said 'careful there, there's a gap' and 'the catwalk is rusted through', there was fear."

The Phantom frowns. "Fear? That's... odd. I was not afraid back then. I'm certain I wasn't – I said so, even boasted that I'd never fall," he says. He doesn't argue that there must be a mistake, though: the Mood Matrix has proved him wrong too many times for him to believe it. The explanation must be another.

"The fact you were not afraid _then_ doesn't have to mean anything," Blackquill says, looking down at the screen as well. "You may have had a reason to be afraid in another moment; after this one, but of course before now. Memories of the past often are muddled with thoughts and feelings of what comes next."

"Let's keep going," Cykes suggests. "It may make more sense later."

The rest of the memory doesn't bring up anything much, however; some surprise when he saw what was going on in the huge storeroom beneath his feet, fear when he saw those armed men standing against the opposite wall, but nothing unexpected. When he reaches the moment the memory ends and the nightmare begins, he stops. "This is... this is all I can remember," he says. "Last thing I can recall is that we began heading to the air vent to get away. Then nothing more."

Blackquill frowns. "Based on what we know, it's obvious those men must have spotted you and shot you both. Can't you remember it happening?"

The Phantom shakes his head. "No. What I wonder is, _how_ did they spot us? I'm certain neither of us was foolish enough to make noise. We were well above them, and even the lights were below us," he adds. Indeed, they were rather high up. It was a long way down to where the men stood.

Something about that thought causes the Phantom to tense, hair standing on the back of his neck. He frowns and tries to focus, tries to pinpoint what's so unnerving about it.

_A long way down_.

_He had several broken bones in addition to the fatal shot in the head._

_Careful there, there's a gap..._

_A long way down._

… _the catwalk is..._

… _several broken bones..._

… _the catwalk is-_

_A LONG WAY DOWN._

"No!"

The scream that leaves him is one of denial and pain in equal parts, for his skull suddenly feels as though it could split. The Phantom screams again, then he reaches up to hold his head in his hands and grounds his teeth against the pain. He struggles to ignore it, and keeps pressing on because he knows he's almost there, he needs to remember and he needs to remember _now_.

_The catwalk is rusted through._

* * *

"_Let's go," Seymour whispers, gripping his arm. He's pale, and absolutely terrified. "Please...!"_

"_Yes," the boy replies, his own voice a whisper. "Let's go back to the air vent. Be quiet," he adds, giving one last look at the men moving down below. None of them has even looked up, and he intends to be long gone by the time any of them may feel like doing just that. _

_They didn't wander very far from the air vent they came through, so there are only a handful steps separating them from the square hold in the wall that will lead them to relative safety. Seymour looks so terrified he can barely function, so the boy gestures for him to go first, get in the air vent first to leave._

_He never reaches it._

_Everything happens fast, so fast the boy has no time to react. Seymour steps closer to the vent and then there is a noise that sounds all the world like a groan, followed by a loud crack. Seymour doesn't even have the time to cry out before a part of the old catwalk just _falls_, bringing him down with it, but he does scream when he hits a pile of crates first and then the ground in a rain of dust, rusted metal and pieces of wood._

_The boy's own scream is trapped somewhere in his throat, but he's too stunned, too terrified to force it out._

_And then it's someone else to cry out, loud enough to be heard through Seymour's howls of pain._

"_What the _fuck_?"_

_Heart hammering in his throat, the boy tears his gaze away from his friend's crumpled form on the ground to see that all the men are now running up to the spot where Seymour has fallen – and several of them are now looking up, straight at_ him._ There is a moment of stillness, only one moment before hell breaks loose._

_The first bullet is fired with a deafening bang and flies right past his head, hitting the wall behind him and startling him out of his stunned trance enough to realize that he needs to go – and he needs to go _now_. _

_More people scream and more shots are fired, but none of them hits the panicked boy as he leaps past the hole in the catwalk and climbs inside the air vent, a bullet narrowly missing him as he does. He can heard them screaming at each other, he can hear them scattering around to try blocking any escape route he may use. They may be waiting for him to shoot him when he gets out on the other side, he realizes. The thought is terrifying, but he knows that if he stops he's lost for sure and so he keeps going, keeps crawling forward, heart pounding and tears wetting his face. He keeps going even when it's Seymour to scream, his voice unrecognizable through the pain and terror – because there is nothing he can do for him, nothing at all._

"_No! Please, no! I don't want to die! Help me! Help!"_

I'm sorry I'm so sorry it was an accident and I never meant for this to happen I didn't mean to...!

"_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! _Please, don't! _Robert! ROB-"_

_There is another bang, and Seymour's screaming ceases at once._

* * *

"No, no, no, no, _no_...!"

The Phantom's screams turn into little more than whimpers, but Blackquill still doesn't let him go. He's aware, vaguely, of the gazes on him – Athena's, and that of the few officers that rushed in as soon as the Phantom began screaming – and he glances at them over the Phantom's shoulder, silently shaking his head.

_Don't interfere_.

They don't, nor they seemed to have any intention to to begin with: they seem too stunned to do anything. Blackquill can't tell what is it that surprises them the most – that the Phantom was able to break the pegs securing his chained wrists to the table or that now he's currently kneeling on the floor, with his face pressed against Blackquill's shoulder and gripping the lapels of his jacket – but at the moment it matters not.

Truth to be told, at first he grabbed the Phantom to hold him down, so that he wouldn't be able to hurt Athena or himself in what seemed a sudden fit of madness. He thought he'd have to fight to restrain him, and he was ready to, but it wasn't the case: the moment Blackquill grabbed him the Phantom just _crumbled_, and fell on his knees while clinging to him, dragging him down on his knees as well. For a moment Blackquill almost pushed him away out of instinct, but then the Phantom pressed his face against his shoulder and released a gut-wrenching howl of grief and pain and hell knew what else. The next moment Blackquill found himself reaching around him to hold him, tight, until the Phantom's trembling subsided and his cries quieted down.

"Phantom," he finally calls out, still holding tight so that he'll be able to hold him still should he have another fit. That gets a reaction out of him, but it's not a fit: he stiffens and draws in a shaky breath before speaking, his voice raspy and muffled by Blackquill's shoulder.

"Robert," he manages, grip tightening on the lapels of his jacket as though to keep him from pulling back.

Blackquill falls silent for a moment, taken aback. Did he just... can it be? Is that it, of _all_ names? Can fate truly be so twisted? "What...?"

"My... my name," the Phantom says, and pulls back just enough to look up at at him. They're so very close, and Blackquill can see just how wide his eyes are, how bright and feverish. "Robert. My name is Robert."


End file.
